


thus spoke the pythia

by saernamaz



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: (a lot of plot lol), Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Ancient Greek Setting, Assassination Plot(s), Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Canon Setting, Fast burn ?? lol, M/M, Porn With Plot, Prophecies, ish, medieval setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saernamaz/pseuds/saernamaz
Summary: Hear your fate, O blood of Lentos.Beware the serpent, earthborn, coming behind thee.Do not let your heart shiver with dread, as the black blood drips from the highest rooftops.Be true, and pray to Aphrodite,that your strength prevails that of evil and deception, a boon to your future.Do that, and the goddess will reward you a lamb,with the kind of seldom beauty that launches a thousand ships.*Thus spoke the Pythia.*Damianos goes to Vere, in search for a spouse as tradition wills it. He happens upon a man, mysterious and beautiful, and is instantly smitten with him. But danger lurks in Vere, and Damen must stand against it, for his love to be given to him...
Relationships: Auguste & Laurent (Captive Prince), Damen & Nikandros (Captive Prince), Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince), Jokaste & Damen (Captive Prince)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	thus spoke the pythia

**Author's Note:**

> I thought about this AU for such a long time like... spy!Laurent being badass and falling in love with hunk warrior slash lover slash descendent of Aphrodite Damianos of Akielos... I wrote a draft of plot moons ago 🤭
> 
> I wrote this in a month and a half I think, so now I think I will go into writing hibernation for two months, and probably update this fic in a few months to correct typos my tired ass brain didn’t notice haha. 
> 
> 51 pages of pure indulgence. ✨
> 
> Enjoy 🦋
> 
> CW: violence (blood and gore in general, but nothing too graphic), death, NSFW content (3 graphic + allusions)

** THUS SPOKE THE PYTHIA **

His sandals lightly tapped against the mosaic tiles of the throne room, echoing and vibrating between the tall and narrow columns, that was holding the tiled ceiling covered in graphic mythological scenes of how the Empire came to exist, which newest decorations flaunted the wealth and finesse of Akielos, with volutes covered in gold leaves and floral patterns on its anta capital. His father had him fetched at the earliest hours of the morning, while servants served him breakfast and readied his bath, for a matter most urgent. Imposant as ever on his red throne, his father was a giant of his own kind, massive and muscular, dark and hairy, a seasoned warrior and ideal of military beauty, who had dedicated his life to building the military glory of his kingdom, and instill marvelous institutions which guaranteed to every citizen equality and freedom in politics through an assembly and magistrates. The decision to divide his power to subalterns was a powerful move, one Damen saw for what it was: a way to end the turmoils that threatened his power and to give aristocrats some power, while quenching the jealousy of the _petite gens_. Now their days were spent in leisure and politics, while slaves guaranteed they had food and money at the end of their day of chronophage, dilatory pleasure. Culture and entertainments ruled the daily life of Ios, from musical representations, to theater spectacles at every corner.

As he approached, his father gave him a wide smile, partly hidden by his long and greying beard, which he was stroking contemplatively. His other hand saluted his son, and summoned him forward. They were alone in the room. Damianos bowed, his knees arching just slightly for his King. Theomedes scoffed, and dismissed the gesture with a wave of his hand, before standing, pushing himself forward. He did not have the svelte physique he once sported in his youth. The King came to stand directly in front of him, and put a warm hand on his shoulder. This close, Damen could see the lovely gleeful wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, the kind which he offered only to his family, and most of all now to his grandson, Kastor’s pride, and the sun and joy of the palace.

“Damianos, my son.”

His voice was fund and warm, so full of untamed pride that Damen felt slightly astonished, and felt his heart drum in his chest. His father must have sensed his amazement, for his cupped his cheek with a large hand and ran his thumb across his cheekbone, as he would do a child. Damianos had been the recipient of such tender gestures so many times in his childhood, until he grew old and independent, preferring the company of his friends and lovers he had made in his _paideia_ to that of the palace. To experience it once again brought him back in time, enough that he could almost picture himself idly playing the lyre on the ground, with Kastor bothering him by poking him in the arm at regular intervals, while his mother sang the poems of an epic Veretian tale of a war and a rage, while his father looked at her with adoration and laughed when Damen launched at his brother.

“Father,” he answered with as much tenderness.

“Look at you, grown and magnificent. The divine bloodline Lentos flows through you, of that there is no doubt.”

Lentos was a mythical King, the son of a brave mortel soldier and the goddess of love, the one who founded Damen’s bloodline and illustrated himself as a fair and grand King, standing against the tyranny of the ancient tyran of his time and defeating him with the aid of the gods, which favored him and his kingdom ever since. His statue in the market place of Ios was the size of a god, to show his magnificence and divinity, and could be seen from land and sea, shining in the setting sun and set ablaze as the star rose. A figure of luck and justice, he was the best of the Akielons and an exemple of _arete_. To be compared to such a man made Damen blush under the praise.

“You are aging, Damianos,” his father continued. “I waited, to pressure you into your duties, as indolent as I know you, but you are almost twenty-six now. You need to get married, if not for love, than for an alliance. You have countless lovers among the military, some of them influent. I might concede to let you marry one of them, even, but you know you have to settle and marry.”

Marriage was a tradition, one which was honored since times immemorial, and the custom associated with their divine parent. More than a contract between mortals, the marriage of royals was the occasion to honor the goddess of love in a sumptuous ceremony, which commemorated their roots and praised the ever virtue of love, both in war and peace. Love and care made men bolder, and gave them the will to fight, to become better than even the heroes of tales and surpass all of their kins. Thus was why every royal was pressured into marrying. They could choose any lover, the one who would kindle their ardent desire to strive to perfection and battle with all the rage of a god of war.

Of course, as a young man, Damen had thought countless time about it. He had read the fables, the tales and the myths about men so endeared with their lovers that they destroyed cities and declared wars even against the gods, had dreamed of such passion and poetry for himself. He had lovers, whose bodies and sometimes minds he valued as a pleasure, but none of them could ever be the one who would drive him to travels seas and lands just to see them smile. He sighed audibly, and his father winced.

“None of them could ever be the right one, father.”

“Then search for them. This is the season of harvests and festivals, surely you could seek them during a symposium or in the streets.”

Damen made a noncommittal noise. His father continued, unrelentless: “Or in another Kingdom, even. We have allies who could welcome you for a season in their court.”

At that, Damianos perked up. Lately his discussions with a philosopher from Vere had piqued his interest in the province once again. As a child, he had used to idolize the foreign, exotic Kingdom and imagine himself walking among the adorned hallways of bas-reliefs, on walls made of colorful stones, from blue to pink, and where delicates arches overhung over comfortable niches made for dallying and loving. Beside the sensual reputation of the Kingdom, renowned for its pets and inventive love-making, Vere was a country of science, where philosophy and culture prevailed in the heart of each citizen, above war and conflict. Diplomat and peaceful, Vere had made spies its main tool for order and foreign relationships, and the stories about them were numerous and exciting. It was a mythical land of tales, hymns and poems sung all around the continent and enjoyed by all. Whether these stories were true or not mattered very little, as the eyes of younglings sparkled with malice and curiosity, and the heart of adolescents and adults beat with anticipation and wonder.

Pompous and educated Vere was on his mind, like a phantom presence, a lot lately, and his heart longed for it. His father had just handed him the perfect opportunity to depart Akielos for Vere.

Relationships between their two countries had been troubled for a very long time, but the action of King Auguste II and his father, the late King Aleron IV, had smoothened them and now Vere stood as a strong and reliable ally. The mutual fascination of the elite for the foreign country helped for the normalization and blossom of trades and exchanges, may they be intellectual or of people. A marriage prospect could do nothing but good to the alliance, and there were no doubts King Auguste, kind and beloved Auguste, which a considered an inspiring pen-pal and long distance friend, would accept his – the Crown’s – request.

“I wish to go to Vere, then.”

His father made a face. Vere being Akielos’ ally did not mean that his father held its people in his heart finding them more flaws than qualities, and still hurt on Kastor’s behalf, for once they visited the Kingdom and his brother from another mother had nothing but glares and insults thrown his away. Auguste had formally apologized and reined in the courtiers’ behavior, but the words had still stung, and the defeated face Kastor had shown them in private had enraged his father more than he would ever admit. Damianos could empathize. Veretians were snakes, sneaky and prone to stab you in the back, using unlawful means such as spies and twisting words out of treaties to ensure their interests were respected and applied, but they were fascinating, the way an exotic civilization often was, so different and avant-garde in their own ways, and whose culture was a pearl among the continent.

“If this is what you wish for,” his father said, voice dropping an octave with either disappointment or worry, Damianos could never be sure when it came to Veretians. “You should write to His Majesty, and send your letter with our best courier. We will send an official letter, but no doubt that a personal request ought to make your interest best known, and your welcome better. Now, go pack, you shall leave as soon as you are ready. It has been a while since we had a wedding in these halls.”

Damianos need not be told twice, and bowed to his father, both out of respect and to hide the telltale signs of joy on his face, before leaving the room at once. He gave curt orders to the slaves he passed, that the best courier shall be brought forward promptly to deliver a message to Vere, and that his household had to prepare him for a season in a foreign court, with is best silks and jewelry, as well as things considered proper gifts for a courtship, should the opportunity present itself.

The hallways of the palace soon turned into a frenzy of slaves running from rooms to rooms, wings to wings, in order to prepare for the departure of their Crown Prince. Damen sat at his desk, wrist curving around the Veretian letters of the message he wrote for Auguste, friendly and warm, asking respectfully for a chance to participate to the upcoming season of his court, which occurred in July and August, soft and tempered summertime, in Vere. He just finished his letter, when a knock on his door was heard. It was the messenger, in traditional riding garments, a Vaskian foreigner from a long line of royal couriers. He bowed for Damen, as a servant and _metoikos_ and not as a slave, with a single knee on the ground and his head lowered in submission.

“Exalted, may I inquire as the progress of your message?”

“Rise,” he ordered, and the man did. Damianos, who did not see him often, could admire how handsome the man was, with the muscled thighs of a rider and the toned arms of an athlete, on display behind the low-cut chiton and simple, draped cloak he wore. His hair was longer than the fashion in Akielos, and braided to his shoulder blades, a deep jet black that reverberated the light of the sun. His face was common, but the strength of his nose made his features stand out singularly, particularly his calm, slanting eyes. “My letter is finished. Did your orders arrive to you?”

“Yes, Exalted, to depart at once and ride hard to Arles, where I should give the message to a servent of King Auguste’s household at best, to whoever is available at worst.”

“Good. The letter holds no vital information, so do not feel guilty if it shall arrive in the hands of someone else. I just wish for it to reach the King as soon as plausible.”

“Of course, Exalted. If I may request leave then, to make way now?”

Damianos smiled, and sealed his letter carefully, before extending it to the messenger. He bowed one last time, before leaving the room in a swift motion, with no other words. Vaskians were well known riders, and the _metoikoi_ that formed the ranks of the royal couriers were the best of them, so much that they benefitted from perks even among the other foreigners of Akielos.

He felt a shiver of excitement. He doubted that Auguste would deny him presence, and it meant that he could spend two months of leisure in Vere, absorbing the myth and the culture as he pleased. He did not go there since the signature of the treaty, and that was but a prompt meeting, and not even in Arles, but at Marlas. His role of Crown Prince had always prevent him of seeking vacation in Arles, so far away from his duties and prerogatives, but now that finding a fiancé or fiancée was his sole obligation, he could visit Arles and its mysteries and delicacies, and not have a care in the world for his tasks, which would be delegated to Kastor, as awful and tedious as he found them. He would do him good, to have more investment in the affairs of his Empire, Damen thought. As a bastard child, born when his father was not even the King, Kastor had no other prerogatives than be educated and well-mannered, and do as he pleased, free of any of burdens that came with the title of Prince.

In the main chamber of his apartments, house slaves, those not strong enough for manual works, or easy enough on the eye to be displayed at the palace’s pleasure, were picking his best silks and organizing them carefully and skillfully in wooden chests, that were then carried on by the slaves that formed the crew of the royal ship, made of sun-kissed muscles, and smelling of sea water and adventures. If none spoke to him, his presence was acknowledged by the deep bow they addressed to him once, their forehead pressed to the marble until Damen dismissed them. In the cacophony of it, Damianos simply observed, asking here and there for a peculiar outfit to be taken, and perhaps adjusted to suit their long journey, which was also the occasion to visit the people of his Kingdom. He doubted he would dress Akielon in Vere, though the novelty of it could attract the locals, perhaps, and he should indulge in it once or twice to have nobles beg to be brought to his bed, but the weather was not as clement as in Akielos, and especially not so far North, bordering on the winter Steppes of Kempt, and the tight and warm clothing they wore, although uncomfortable and restrictive, was better suited to Arles.

Overall, the preparations lasted three days, during which servants, secretaries and slaves were busied with planning the journey, including the salaries of the crew and oarsmen, and the maintenance of the triremes, and ordering the suite of nobles’ paraphernalia. Damianos, as custom wishes, would be accompanied by a small retinue of guards and a few elite citizens he fancied and had invited for the occasion. His brother-in-arms Nikandros was the first name on the list, seconded by a young warrior, whom he had become better acquainted with in bed, named Pallas, as well as comrades he made during his _agogé_ , Lydos, Atkis, Stavos, Elon and Naos, serving directly in his guard. Makedon was tasked with the coordination and command of his soldiers, and was thus included in the suite. He had extended an invitation to the lady Jokaste, a renowned warrior and athlete of Ios, as well as her spouse Kyrina, who eagerly agreed, and a juvenile doctor named Erasmus, along with his assistants Kallias and Isander. These people were an educated elite in the palace, which gave them the place and tools to perfect their art and make the Empire shine internationally. Akielos could only be rivaled culturally and scientifically by Vere, thus the invitation. Two magistrates elected by their assembly, Heston and Meniados, just and inflexible men of principales, were also appointed as overseers, here to see that everything went perfectly for as long as the Crown Prince was in a foreign land, and likewise that he did not plot against his own Empire, the Crown, or worse, the people.

They departed Ios in the morning of the fourth day, after sacrificing a bull for Apollo, and praying for a sound sea and guidance, his father coming personally to see him off and embrace him tenderly in front of the reunited city, which came to bid its Prince save travels. The omens were good, and had brought glee to the Empire when the Pythia said in her transe that Vere would see him blessed with such a beauty the earth seldom saw, if his heart did not waver and was true. Ios had been in a constant state of euphoria for a whole day when the declaration was made public, and many had started to draw the portrait of this mysterious beauty, and dedicate them hymns. Damianos would be lying to himself if he denied being intrigued and set ablaze by the prophecy himself.

The salt permeate the air of the port, a few minutes of riding West of Ios, blossoming with pennons floating in the wind, petals being thrown by children as the small retinue of people proceeded through the city and the chora. The cheers echoed in the small streets, bouncing off the marble and stones of the city-port. They dismounted before their ships, a contingent of three wooden giants adorned with the colors of the royal family, a deep red, a reminiscence of their war exploits and of the passion and love for their Kingdom, always. The sailors lowered the gangway, and bowed as Damianos and his companions embarked. The people saluted them one last time, as the crew gave the order to sail, and the winds slithered them away from the shores of Ios.

The journey would last a week at best, perhaps two if the winds were unfavorable. It was decided that they would stop for a day or two in the North of Akielos, in Corinth, to attend a festival dedicated to Aphrodite and replenish their ressources. Heston and Meniados both agreed that it was a good omen to have Damianos present for Aphrodite’s blessings because of the prophecy. He was just glad for a small respite from the sea, which, as much as he loved, could be jejune and insipid. Damianos was far from a man of routine, obstinate and feverish as he was, fed with the ambrosia of adventures and fairytales, made for war and grand battles.

Life on the ship was easy enough, for he spent his days dallying with Nikandros and the soldiers, and shared his evening with Jokaste and Kyrina, listening to their smooth and delicate voices talk ofthe ardent questions of life itself, in between tales of war and championship. She more she spoke, the more Damen could phantom why she was so renowned a philosopher. Her words were an art, every sarcasm and rhetoric a way to bring the mind to her point, which was thoughtful and profound. Clearly raised a poet first, her sentences were a wax of ethereal and sensible words, playing on their signification and etymology the way few minds can. More than once had Damianos been so engrossed in their conversation, that he forgot to sleep, and they kept talking all night, until the sun ascended and they parted ways, shameful of their unbecoming behavior, yet content of their evening and conversation. Other than that, the journey to Corinth was left uneventful. The salty seas were calm, the stars beautiful diamonds that led them over the black earth, with the benediction of the immortal siblings watching over sailors.

They eventually reached after four days of sailing. Half built in a sacred plain and on top of a magnificent hill, Corinth was a wonder. The temple of Aphrodite, on the hill stood, tall and proud,flaunting Corinth’s sigils and its sacred _hetairai_ , visible on the horizon for any travelers passing by, enchanting them to come by and witness the lavish architectural style of the city, built out of marble columns, whose capital resembled half-rolled scrolls and acanthus patterns, enhanced by carved rosettes painted in deep gold and pink, influenced both by Patras and Vere, as well as traditional Akielon styles. The pink trees complimented the beautiful light stones of the houses and of the pavements, reflecting tranquilly on the surface of fountains and the sea. A maze of streets and gardens, the city was said to be the perfect hunting ground for lovers, who would chase each other in the city, and if they shall meet under a flower of Aphrodite carved on the walls of the buildings, then their love would be fated and last forever. In the middle of the city, its Agora was the beating heart of the city, where judges, magistrates and merchants mingled in a kaleidoscope of smells and sounds, spread around a square fountain, with flowers and statues doting the place. The grand gallery that surrounded it was beautiful, with a small temple dedicated to Zeus in between shops and institutional edifices, tall columns and delicate mosaics depicting the birth of Aphrodite, and an old Veretian tale about the heroic and courtly romance between the mighty King of Vere and a dedicated spy, even though he is married to an influent and gracious Queen.

The festival in the honor of Aphrodite had started the day before with the theatric production of the rapt of Helen, another Veretian tale about how the abduction of the beautiful Veretian Princess by a Patran courtier plunged the continent into a decade-long war, in the hopes that she would be rescued and marry the victor, with Marlas as the mythical city where parleys happened to bring back peace, and eventually let the Princess decide who she shall marry. Damianos felt slightly disappointed to have missed it, being one of his favored tales, but the archonte who had welcomed them had assured him that the day was young and would be even grander in terms of amazement, with factice hunts between youth in the sweetly decorated streets if he wished to partake in them, and singing contests. A symposium would conclude the evening, and last until the morning of the final day, during which a procession would be organized, leading to the climax of the holocaust of goats and bulls and libations for Aphrodite.

If Damianos refused the joy of the hunt, he decided to attend the symposium, with most of his court following him, except for Erasmus and Kallias, who preferred wandering the city by themselves in such a beautiful evening. The dinner was fastuous and sententious, with long tables covered in honeyed meats and fresh vegetables presented on ivory dishes, and the sweet song of flutes and lyres mixed with the conversation happening on benches and under the colorful trees of the North. The Prince mingled, here and there, listening to a wise word from an elder, and answering naive question asked by children let free by their parents for the occasion. Alcohol tended to make people indolent, and as such, as the night progressed, Corinthians soon forgot all about his statut and dispositions, and started to speak in earnest with him, never holding back a thought or a rude gesture. He had missed the easy conversations with common people he had experience during his agogé, where he was not the Crown Prince, but a young man that needed to prove himself, and the airiness of the atmosphere made him at ease. His last taste of integrity before going to Vere, where every word had a double-entendre, and edged toward the fine brutal honesty of Veretian sarcasm, a honeyed poison foreigners drank like nectars, without ever tasting the connotations behind, sharp as a blade and often hurtful and consciously vile. Such lack of ethics revolted him as much as it fascinated him. No wonder Vere produced so many poets, who used words to love, more than to hurt as nobles did, and brought beauty to the language.

Damianos had left the symposium soon after the moon reached her highest point in the sky, tired by days of travels and restless nights, and he was glad he did, when he saw Pallas and Naos, the youngest men of the suite, struggle to walk straight, mind still buzzing with wine and desserts. He had half the mind to tase them, by judging by their state, they would not be a very receptive audience, nor would they actually understand him, he thought. Mercifully, they could seek solace and rest of the freed benches, as the procession of young maidens dancing at the clear sound of the cymbales, while young men led chariots through the streets, throwing flowers and almonds on the spectators, or walked amphoras full of wine, myrrh, cassia and frankincense. The parade went from the port to the high hills, passing through the gates of the main city to join a cohort of mounted soldiers tasked with ensuring the cortege and citizens arrived at the temple without hurt nor fear of bandits and wild animals. The sacrifice took place at noon, as the sun shone brightly above them, and lasted an hour, until the last beast silently went limp on the altar, and the last drop of wine soaked the soil. The high priestess of Aphrodite blessed the city, and particularly Damianos, and prophesied that Aphrodite will be on his side in Vere. As soon as the ceremony ended, Heston ordered for Damen’s party to gather and prepare for departure. Damianos had almost left the atrium of the sanctuary, when the high priestess came to him, still dressed in her sacred regalia, her hand coming gently on his forearm.

“Exalted, if you may spare me a word?”

“Always, _Hiereia_.”

The woman smiled to him, her eyes wrinkling slightly as she did so, a sign that she was entering her early autumn. She was a petite woman, svelte still despite her age, all dark skin and golden accents playing in the sun. Her round and appreciative face was laid on a graceful neck covered in beauty marks, where her hair fell loosely in stylish curls. Her delicate and warm hand left his arm as soon as he gave her his attention, and she turned around toward her temple. Hetairai, sacred prostitues of the temple, giggled as they saw him, and whispered among themselves when the high priestess was far enough not to bother admonishing them for their inconsiderate manners. The temple was at the image of the city, refined and exquisite, with beautiful pink tiles leading to a gigantic statue of Aphrodite, naked and sensual, enticing the stranger to come forward and sacrifice to her even a few words of praise. The priestess stopped before her.

“We have heard of your prophecy, of course, my child.”

“What do you think of it?”

She laughed softly. “I cannot say I have been blessed with the divine gift of Apollo, but I do see Aphrodite in your future, the signs she sent me told me so. You shan’t forget, that beyond love and passion, Aphrodite is a war-bringer, the rallier of troops and destructor of cities. Be careful in Vere, my Prince, for I see bad omens there, and a war in the making. She gave Helen to Patras once, and sent a thousand ships to ravage its coast. If your lover is but a fragment of the beauty she was, I cannot help but think that conflict is bond to happen, with you caught in it. But should you stand proud and never abandon your heart, then prophecy has it that you shall marry this Helen, but beware of the consequences of it, my child. That is all I can say with certainty.”

“I thank you for your insight. I trust that the gods will guide me in the right path.”

“I can only pray for that as well. But, ah, you’re a young man, tells of battle should amaze you, and not rebuke you, does it not?”

“You read me like a book, _Hiereia_ ,” he smiled pleasantly. She gave him a private smile, before reaching for the pendant at her neck, presenting it to Damianos. It was a simple golden chain, with a translucide, round stone hang to it, through which light reflects itself in a kaleidoscope of red, white and gold, the goddess’ colors.

“A token of good luck, blessed by Aphrodite, so she shall guide you through your many adventures, and perhaps advice you in times of need.”

“We thank you for this wonderful gift. I am afraid that my refusal would be taken as an offense, so I shan’t negotiate, but know that I am grateful for this gesture.”

“Please, child, accept it as Aphrodite’s gift to you. My prayers shall guide you, Exalted, and I wish you a save journey, as well as joys in your quest.”

Damianos thanked her one last time, kissing her hand in a formal and kind gesture of farewell, before swiftly making his way to the port, where the ships were waiting, accoutred and primed. Nikandros was waiting for him on board, looking at him from the balustrade, his cheek resting on the palm of his hand in a boyish gesture, with his eyebrow raised and a smirk dangling on his lips as he saw the pendent around Damianos’ neck.

“Charmed the High Priestess into giving it to you?” he joked, as Damianos rejoined him on the ship and passed an arm around his shoulders, contemplating the city one last time.

“You know I did,” he quipped as well.

Nikandros’ smooth laugh was music to his ears. His mind kept driving him back to the same worries: a war, a conflict, with his Helen as the key. He simply hoped this war was less deadly than the antique one. Nikandros must have sensed his worries, for his smile fell down, and he faced Damen, cupping his cheeks with his calloused fingers.

“Brother, what is on your mind.”

“The prophecy. I thought that the dark blood simply was Veretian cunning writing me off as a foreigner and an Akielon, but the Priestess spoke of war, Nik.”

“Ah,” he breathlessly said. “Yes, Jokaste has shared the same reasoning it seems. She and a few others. The Pythia did link them to Helen, did she not?”

“It seems you are right. Perhaps going to Vere is a mistake.”

“For whom? Conflict for their beauty will happen, may you be there or not. You have the means to stop a war in the bud, aware as you are, and favored by the gods. And even if there is death, you will have your beauty as a consolation prize, as Paris had Helen.”

“You sound oddly romantic, Nik. The sea softens you.”

He scoffed. “Nonsense. I just do not wish upon myself to deal with you in a defeated state, as your prize is taken away from you, and Akielos still probably launched in a war. Come on, this is the epic poem you have been dreaming of, is it not? Trust yourself, Damen. Yes, love launches war, but it resolves them just as quickly, and even before they begin. Prophecies cannot be evaded, so follow it, and stand your ground when Aphrodite will wish it, and claim honor, glory and love for yourself. Do not become a pathetic hero, it does not suit you.”

“You really know how to cheer me up, friend,” he exhaled. The thought of a bloody fight for someone was still beyond him, as archaic as the gesture was, and he hoped Nikandros was right when he said that he could stop the conflict before it reached a high scale and doom them all. “Now come, let us drink to drown our woe and forget about it all until we reach the Veretian coast. I know I won’t see your cheerful side for a while there, as averse to the Kingdom as you are.”

The rest of the travel went as smoothly as its debut, and they reached the port of Marches in the next two days, the winds blowing stronger behind them and making their ship glide on the serene waves of the ocean. The port was buzzing with excitement as they arrived, the people of Vere crowding the streets to catch a glimpse of the foreign royals riding atop their most qualified and polished horses to travel to the capital in a sumptuous cortege of soldiers and carriages adorned with golden haut-reliefs depicting naked angels floating around flowery shapes and female figures, on a painted rich blue sky dotted with silvers stars, the emblems of Vere. Two more days were needed to reach Arles, spent saluting the farmers and petite gens who cheered for them from their fields and windows, throwing roses and coins at them as a welcome chant, and resting in comfortable inns specially designated to accommodate them in privacy and luxury.

Arles was empyrean, an awe in the plain landscape Vere had offered them until now. The whole city was built around a tall cliff, with humble dwellings niched and carved in the stone, weaving around the rock and waterfalls, with the Elysian palace of white marble and high walls, balconies decorated with statues and small fountains and narrow columns erected on its peak. Stairs and paths made of delicate white stones assured a nexus between the different levels and sparse public places bursting with activity as the foreign delegation approached, and the greenery brought colors to the whole picture from a fresh green to a delicate pink and white arrangement of blooming trees. They were to meet the Veretian court at the bottom of the cliff, in front of the temple of Mercury, a tall edifice of stone, with gigantic colonnades, whose garden and parvis were decorated with statues of a naked winged youth, ready to take flight to accompany the welcome delegations, and drive back ennemies, as legend has it in the Kingdom.

Golden and luminous in their soft cream silks, refined and heavy costumes embroidered with gold motives and fastened with tight laces, the Vere royals were waiting at the feet of the tallest statue, looking serene for the child and the wife, while King Auguste’s face was open and graced with a warm smile, which Damianos mirrored instantly. Behind them stood the Council, ten noble men elected for life by the people for their virtues and renown throughout the Kingdom, one per region, in full regalia, a long blue robe which gave them their nickname. Some nobles were crowded in the background to witness the arrival of the Akielon Crown Prince, while the people and the rest of the court observed from the heights of Arles. When the cortege came close enough to the Veretian embassy, they all dismounted from their horses and descended from their carriages, bowing deeply in front of the royals and the court that so graciously welcomed them, and payed for most of their expenses. Auguste dismissed the gesture at once, and embraced Damianos in front of the audience, clapping his back twice before stepping back, his hands still resting on his forearms.

Auguste was the same as he had been, eight or so years ago, tall and toned, in his prime now at thirty-five. His figure was still on the slim side, at least compared to Akielons, and behind his garments, but he was unmistakably a warrior, with broad shoulders and a strong neck, on which rested a hearty, wide face, cleanly shaved, accentuating his sharp traits, Grecian nose, plush lips and tender blue eyes. His golden hair was shorter than in his youth, in a straight bob that grazed his chin. He was dressed according to his station, with a heavy golden crown shaped like a star and incrusted with silver gemstones, and a rich costume of blue velvet fabrics, with long sleeves that were puffed on his shoulders and tight on his forearms, laced in an intricate pattern, and tight black slacks that drew the eyes to his powerful thighs, where black boots blend in easily. A cape of gold was draped around his shoulders, the sole color in his outfit.

Beside him, his Queen, lady Hildegard, was much more colorful figure, with a long robe of turquoise silks, decorated with golden geometric figures on her sleeves, tight, high collar and along her bouffant skirt. Her sleeves were cut in the same style as her husband’s, but the laces were more discreet, if ever present. She wore a long golden cape, that reached the earth, and whose ends were sublimed with fluffy white fur. As for the lady herself, she was a beautiful woman, yet severe. She was tall, almost as tall as Auguste, and of very fair coloring, the telltale sign that she was Kemptian, like the King’s late mother. Her chestnut hair was delicately curled and let loose, safe for a few strands that were braided to form a crown around her head and secure the tiara she wore proudly. Her face could have been delicate, if she had smiled, but her lips were tightly shut out of respect, and her green eyes cast forward, crowned by intransigent, and finely arched eyebrows.

As for their son, the adolescent Crown Prince Nicaise, he was a sweet amalgam of his parents, with the coloring and delicacy of his mother, but the face of his father. He wore a costume closer in style to his father, but with the same colors as his mother, with a turquoise vest and soft white high pants, and a warm golden jacket that hung loosely on his shoulders, with the same Veretian-style sleeves as his parents. His face was inquisitive, his doe blue eyes sparkling with malice, as he watch the cortege of foreigners present before his father. His lips were petulantly raised in a smirk, that he tried to hide behind his collar. He clearly amused by the display, and had an untamed unruly side to him that Damianos found charming at his age, but which would be unbecoming in a few years at court.

“You grew, my brother in Akielos,” Auguste said sweetly, in Veretian.

“You too, my brother in Vere,” Damianos responded just as merrily, in the very same language. He doubted Auguste had gotten better in Akielon.

Once Auguste released him, he went to greet the Queen, who gave him a warm smile despite the apparent shyness that made her blush and lose her smile just as promptly as she gave it, kissing her knuckles lightly as was the custom in Vere, and gave Nicaise a pet on the top of his head, unsure of how to greet the little prince. He made a clicking noise of discontentment with his tongue as a response, and the Queen almost chastised him, before Damen waved it off with a laugh. While the rest of his retinue greeted the royals, he made his way to the Councilmen, watching the foreign delegation with kind eyes and approval for most of them, except the lords chosen in the South, who did not deign return his greetings. Auguste looked disapprovingly at their lack of manners, but Damen supposed that he could not do much more, his power on the Senate being limited for as long as they were in function.

Finally, after each guest had been welcomed personally, the King enjoined the group to start the ascension of the Arlesian hill toward the palace. The Veretians clearly kept a gentle pace to accommodate their guests, for while some of them were warriors used to the physical strain of exercice, the lady Kyrina and Erasmus were endeavored as they progressed, between the flight of stairs and the abrupt relief. The public squares, built on plain surfaces, were a relief for their feet and thighs. As they walked up, each group mingled with the others, the Queen conversing agreeably with lady Jokaste, while Nicaise blatantly made fun of Nikandros by imitating his rare grunts of effort, or his stiff posture. He seemed unbothered by the brat clinging to his side, and Damianos suspected that he also found him endearing in his own special way.

“Eight years,” Auguste said behind him.

“Eight years,” he echoed. “So much happened since then, I have so much to tell you.”

“Me as well, Damianos. Gosh, I do not not if you even recall, but the first time you saw Nicaise, he was not taller than my hips and was hiding behind my legs during the whole negotiations.”

Auguste’s face was sweet and loving as he spoke of his son, almost dreamy. He looked at Damen with profoundly fond eyes, and Damen chuckled. He did recall Nicaise, timid as he had been. “He had changed so much. I almost did not recognize him.”

“Oh, he’s a terror lately. _Alas_ , I think he spends too much time in bad company.”

He said the last statement with a private smile, as if it was a joke, tender and without a trace of worry or venom behind his words. He sighed dramatically to emphasize his words, and slumped slightly toward Damen, in a childish gesture that did not suit a King. Damen laughed. Auguste either had not changed a bit from the frivolous young man he had been as a Crown Prince. He had missed the easy conversations he could have with the other man.

“I wish to restate my thanks for welcoming us this season.”

“Oh, please, the pleasure is all mine. It has been a while since we received any foreign guests here, and it is also a good thing for the alliance. As you have seen, some citizens still have their doubts about the treaty, and your visit can only be a benefit to the situation… Or so I hope. The lords are… complicated to deal with lately. But, ah, we will talk about it later, in the privacy of my chambers. We should be mirthful today, what with your arrival and the great ball organized tonight. Nothing like a Veretian feast, am I right?”

“Oh, you couldn’t be more right, brother. I look forward to it. But I fear that before that, we have to settle down, and I am afraid that I shall request some rest as well. The journey, although easy, was tiring.”

“No offense to that, We understand. Servants will see that your affairs be brought to your chambers and organize if you wish it, so please, simply rest easy and enjoy Veretian comfort.”

“We will, thank you Auguste.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he said with a wink, as they approached the palace.

From up close, the palace was even more Homeric than throning atop its hill. The gates was an august wonder of painted metal, sculpted to form serpentine round shapes, as if it was a deconstructed tapestry, surrounded by two square edifices, each with columns at the four extremities and an arched niche in the middle of the façade, where a statue was sheltered. On the roof were statues of naked, laying youths playing the lyre, crowned with a star-shaped crown resembling that of the King. Damianos guessed they represented the founding twins, Alcide and Evariste, whose conflict ended with the death of Evariste, and the victory of Auguste’s mythical line over the other. Past the gates was a paved road, that led to a grand ascending staircase, whose marble roof was supported by flowery columns on each side of the stairs, and complimented by terraced gardens of intricate parterre and lovely fountains, where angels played in the serene water. The stairs led to the main square on the parvis of the palace, simply adorned with an august fountainwith three rearing horses, and the same figure of Alcide taming one of them, and rising above the water. The palace itself was marvelous, with open galleries of columns and niches, all white and gold, shining in the morning sun, and decorated with more opulent statues and bas-reliefs. All the fast and the luxury of Vere condensed in an architectural wonder.

The interior was just as fastuous, with soberly decorated tiles on the ground, and colorful carved stones for walls. Servants were running around the palace with cutlery and trails, chests and fabrics, surely for the banquet given in the evening. Auguste dismissed everyone as soon as they stepped outside, and young men were tasked with showing the guests to their wing and their rooms. Damianos felt too exhausted to dally around, and retreated almost immediately to his chambers, as did the majority ofhis entourage. His room was as luxurious as the rest, with a main room with ottomans, a fire place, as well as a table and a few chairs on the tall window, just before the balcony. The decorations were plenty, and with matching colors ranging from blue to gold, white and pink. The door on the left led to a sparsely furnished bathroom, with a simple bath dug into the marble, and linked to a network of warm geyser water, as well as a coiffeuse and a wardrobe. His affairs had not be brought yet. The door on the right led to the bedroom itself, a petite room, with a fireplace and a kingsized bed with purple silk sheets and cushions, and curtains around it for privacy. Candles were placed around the room on candelabras of various size and shapes. Overall, his bedroom was sumptuous, if impersonal, and where beauty preceded comfort. It did not prevent him from jumping on his bed, and falling asleep in his dirty riding clothes on the soft feather mattress.

He awoke later than he would have liked, with the sun setting slowly behind the cliff, its warm rays hitting his face and making him wince as he opened his eyes. He felt groggy, after sleeping for so long, and worst of all, he did not even begin to get ready for the evening. He got up with a groan, and with difficulty walked all the way to the bathroom. Servants had arranged for his belongings to be ordered, for that he was grateful, and the bath was full of still warm water. He undressed promptly, discarding the loose pants and billowy shirt he had worn on the road, and got into the scent bath. The air scented faintly of roses, and various soaps and oils were presented on the edges of the tiled pool, as well as bath salts and all sorts of perfume and encens. Damianos chose the soap that smelled like lavender and chamomile, and pale pink salts that he threw in his bath. He relaxed, as he scrubbed himself, still too private to call for a servant to wash him, and let the warmth loosen his tense muscles. Perhaps if he had woken up sooner, he would have soaked for a few more minutes, but already late for the ball, he got out as soon as his skin felt fresh and clean, and rubbed his skin with some scented oil, one whose odor was not as stark as the rest, airy and flowery. He let it dry for as long as he took to chose which clothing to wear. He had brought the clothing he had commissioned eight years ago for Vere, and he noticed that Auguste also had clothes tailored for him as he searched his wardrobe. In the end, he decided on a stylish outfit with a tight red jacketstud with burgundy floral motifs, that hugged his sinewy arms and chest, and comfortable golden pants in the newest fashion. As a royal, he also adorned on a red cape with golden embroideries. After debating, he also chose to keep he Aphrodite pendent on himself tonight, as clashing as it was with the rest of his regalia. It was a bold outfit, one he doubted he could have the courage to wear any other day than tonight. He finished with a spray of perfume, before looking at himself in the mirror and exhaling loudly to give him courage.

Content with his presentation, and feeling pristine and roused, he left his chambers at once. The hallways were empty, and the majority of his group was already at the ball, or in the worst case not even ready yet. He did not have time, nor the motivation, to plan to meet anyone before the festivities, and thus, he concluded that he shall go alone. It turned out to be more difficult than he envisioned, and as he turned into more and more hallways, he feared that he was lost, and the brief indications the servant had given them lost in his sleepy haze from earlier. He almost despaired to never find his route, when he happened upon Auguste, talking with a young man whose back faced him. He was shorter than Auguste by several inches, not even reaching his chin, but he stood so rigidly he looked like a marble statue. His long hair was a very light yellow, similar to the water lilies permeating the lakes back in Ios, braided in a tight plait cascading to his full hips like flowers, so soft it made clouds jealous. He was clad in a sober turquoise jacket, tight-fitting, golden laced and without any more fioritures, and black pants with complementary black boots. His only fancy was a dark pink cape, draped over his shoulders. Probably a young noble, then. Damianos stayed back, sensing Auguste busy with the young lad’s attention, until the King’s gaze caught his, and his stern face split in a sweet smile.

“Damianos!”

The young man turned around to regard who had interrupted his conversation, and Damen’s breath caught. He was even prettier, sculpted in the purest marble and kissed by the gods, born from the swan’s egg. His face was soft, long and elegant, with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a delicate jawline. Corail danced on his plush, full lips, so enticing that even the statues of the hallways could not have stayed insensible to its charm and would have tasted his honey with the avidity of a dying man. Under the marble pavillon of his lids, his almond blue eyes were as clear as the sky after a tempest, so deep you could loose yourself in them, noble and graceful, and framed with long lashes and thin eyebrows. His complexion was fair, but kissed with golden reflects that shone under the candlelight. As for the body, he was svelte and slim, but one could guess the silhouette of muscles underneath his prude veils, built through house sports and not war like his were.

“I shall speak with you later then, your Majesty,” he said calmly, his voice smooth and clear like crystal. He bowed his head towards Auguste, and, acknowledging Damen once again: “Exalted,” as he bowed deeply. And just like that, he was gone.

Vaguely, he heard Auguste laugh, and the hand he slammed on his shoulder drew him out of his reverie. “He has enticed you too then, did he not?”

“I did not know you kept such beauty locked in your ivory tower, my friend,” he said, his own voice sounding distant. His eyes strained on the corner where he last saw his nymph. Auguste laughed again.

“He has that effect on everyone, believe it or not. Were you lost? You looked panicked.”

“I— I was, yes, indeed. May I ask for your help?”

“Of course… Of course. Come, the ball already started.”

It took a mere minute to gain the ballroom. They went through the very same hallway the young man had left by, and he hoped to see him in a niche, perhaps, waiting for him, or around a corner, whispering to another man and leaving him as soon as he saw Damianos. But he did not cross his path. The festivities had begun, as Auguste had predicted, gowns and costumes intertwining in a waltz of colors and superb silks, in the grand room at the image of the rest of the palace, decorated with multitude of smelly flowers, pennons and statues of heroes and royals alike. Auguste left him very soon after arriving, advising him to mingle with other people, if he ever hoped to find someone to marry, jesting that he would only slow him down, as he was the handsomest of the two. So Damianos did. He spoke with young maidens and lords, exchanging courtesy words and polite smiles, but never feeling any spark. Once or twice, he had found Nikandros speaking to Veretian soldiers, and had joined them in their talks of ribaud tales or military exploits, but found himself bored with that still. The young man from earlier was on his mind constantly, so much that Damianos could still taste his perfume, sweet and soft like the monoï oils he was offered. His face, so luminous he made the sun paled and the maidens wish they were as pretty, was burned in his amorous eye. Artemis and her nymphs in the woods did not shine as brightly as he did; Persephone glowed less in the Underworld than him in this gallery. So when he caught a glimpse of pale gold and turquoise, he blamed his languid eyes for the mirage, until his mind reasoned with him.

There he stood, among the other nobles, his eyes surveilling the room, making the rest of them pale in comparaison to the dawn of this new sun, looking the same as earlier, but the dark pink cape draped around his shoulders. His feet led him to the young mind of their own accords, and soon he found himself standing before the object of his loving thoughts. The other man looked as surprised as Damianos was, but regained his composure almost instantly, and bowed courtly.

“Exalted.”

“Please,” he said, breathlessly, “call me Damianos. Or Damen.”

“As you please, Damianos. You may call me Charls.”

He tasted the name on his tongue, let it rolled against his palate and rotate between his teeth. “Charls,” he echoed, “it is a delight to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mutual.”

His small smile was dazzling, and for a moment, Damianos forgot himself. He could look nowhere else. He extended his hand to Charls, who looked inquisitively at it, and proposed for them to find a calm corner to talk. Charls seemed hesitant at first, but eventually nodded with a court smile, and took his hand. It was soft and cold, with only soft callouses from refined swords and feathers, and fitted like a glove in his own broad hand. They found a quiet niche near a balcony, and sat there for the rest of the evening, exchanging words of wits and informations about their mutual country. Damianos soon found that Charls was perfectly trained in the art of conversation, and knew how to use his words wisely and efficiently. He was educated, intelligent, with an opinion on everything, and greedy to expose it, but also witty and playful, making quips at the expense of the other nobles discreetly. Never did he drink wine, refusing Damen’s offers, but as the evening progressed, his cheeks reddened imperceptibly if one did not look for it. Soon they found himself sitting closely, until their thighs touched, and the warmth of Charls’ body sent shivers down his spine.

“What is that, if I may inquire?” Charls asked quietly, his hands coming to seize the stone that hung from his golden chain. Its color had changed to a beautiful red in the candlelight.

“A sacred stone to the goddess Aphrodite, that her high priestess offered me during my travel.”

Charls smiled, his fingers playing with the red stone. “She is the goddess of love, is that not right? It is a beautiful pendent.”

“She is. The equal of your Venus. Although, I trust that as a Veretian goddess, yours is much more passionate and vigorous than ours is.”

“Perhaps,” he chuckled discreetly. “Vere does have a reputation for eroticism, does it not?”

“It does indeed.”

“Have you… ever experienced it?” His question was spoken quietly, in a shy, closed-off voice that made Damianos’ heart beat loudly in his chest.

“I never had the time for it. But I– I did think about it, to be fair.”

“Is it an attractive idea?”

The conversation felt private, too much. He felt hot and bothered. “It is, with the right partner.”

Charls blushed a deep red, and his fingers left his chain, descending to his hand, tense on his lap. He slanted forward, until his breath was warm on Damen’s ear, and his body plastered to his. “Would you wish to experience it tonight?”

“Yes, gods, yes,” he whispered to the night.

His other hand came to take Charls’ free hand, and kissed it chastely once. The young man let out a soft exhale that sent arousal pumping in his veins at the prospect of having him, even just for one night. He would savor it, and carve it into his memory, to solace in it for the rest of his life, if he could only have this once. If he let him, he would court Charls, properly and gentlemanly, showering him in gifts and lavish attention, writing poems and hymns to his beauty and brillance. Damianos helped the young man stand up, and, keeping his hand in his, led him away from the few nobles still dancing and drinking. The hallways were filled with the laughters of young lovers caught in an erotic tangle, and couples embracing in the twilight of a statue, but Damianos could only think of Charls next to him, how warm he was, and how good he smelt. Charls, who knew the hallways, helped guide them to Damianos’ chambers.

As soon as the door closed, Charls had him pinned against the wood, kissing his jaw and neck, fluttering touches that left burning mark on his soul. Damianos’ hands raised to his waist, and caressed it voluptuously as Charls continued his assault. Damen could feel the first signs of arousal, the fire pooling low in his abdomen and the curt, shallow breaths he took as Charls kissed his Adam’s apple. He wanted more. He cupped Charls’ cheeks and brought him to his lips, inquiring for entry by pressing his tongue on his lower lips, until they opened under his caresses, and Charls went pliant like a flower in his arms as he tasted the nectar on his tongue. Their hands roamed their bodies, unstoppable in their pursuit, coming to pull at the laces that held the curtains separating them. Impatient, Damianos cupped his rear and with raw strength that made Charls moan sweetly, raised the other man from the ground, until his legs came to nestle around his hips. He walked the few steps that separate him from his bedroom and laid Charls on it with all the gentleness he could master in his state.

He was sinful, laid half barren on his bed, like a desecrated virgin braving the interdictions for the first time. His face was flush, and the blood descended to his chest, making it a soft pink that looked marvelous on him. Damianos felt like Pygmalion witnessing Galatea’s renaissance, after being kissed by Aphrodite’s grace. He stopped for a moment, taking it the painting in front of him, before lowering himself slowly on the bed, one knee between the other’s legs. He caressed Charls’ cheek, and the young man let out a shaky breath as he leaned into the touch.

“Let me make love to you, Charls.”

“This is what I brought you here for, Damianos,” he said, softly, only for Damen to hear, so delicate and open that he felt his heart drop.

Damianos leaned forward and kissed him, deeply, feeling his heart beat against his equally naked chest, sparrow-like. They were pressed against one another, skins melting together in the warmth of the burning candles, and only put on some distance to breath in between dances. He was leaning on his forearms, as not to crush Charls, possessively close to his head. With one hand, he tried to dispose of Charls’ pants, struggling on the laces until the young man helped him with a smirk, which Damen eagerly kissed away. After discarding his own pants, Charls worked on Damen’s, and soon, they found themselves naked as the day they were born, exposed to the other. Charls looked him up and down, and bit his lips.

“I see you are everywhere in proportions,” he whispered, voice raw and slightly quavery under desire.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he said, before pressing a butterfly kiss in the hollow of his neck, where it met his jawline.

Charls went silent under his kisses. Damianos switched their positions in one swift motion, using one arm to secure Charls against his chest and the other to push themselves. The display of strength made Charls moan softly again, and Damen smiled. He then brought them in a sitting position, letting Charls grind tamely in his lap, his cock coming to rub against his stomach, while his own found solace in the small of his back, and between his velvety cheeks. Their height difference made it easy for Damianos to slightly bow and take a nipple in his mouth, suckling gently, while a free hand came to play with the other. Charls arched under the ministrations, and his skin flushed prettily. Damen drew back. The skin around the pink bud shone in the light, wet and appealing, and Damen wanted the other side to match. He continued, slowly, tantalizing, so eager to feel Charls around him, yet wanting the night to last for eternity and tease the young man to completion. He only stopped when he felt Charls twitch against him, as his fingers started to claw at his back, which he had been caressing before. His breath was rapid and warm against his temple.

“I want you to sit on my face.”

Charls drew back, eyes wide. “Pardon me?”

Damianos smiled, and caressed a strand of blond hair, that started to get unruly and that fell gently around his face as golden rings. “Have you never done it before?”

“I—” Charls flush. “No, I— I’m not… Very experienced in, well, _that_ domain.”

He felt a strange pride swell in his chest at the words. Charls, still practically innocent Charls, sheepish and inexperienced Charls, an anomaly in Vere, had blessed him with his time, gave him his trust for Damianos to treat him right and offer him heaven on a silver tray. He pressed a kiss on his temple, reassuring, his presence a comfort and not a threat.

“I want to make you feel good. You’d love it.”

Charls nodded, still unsure, as Damen laid down on the bed, rearranging himself so that his head rested on a cushion. Charls observed him, and right on cue, crawled toward his face. He gave one more kiss on his lips, just a taste, before mounting his face like one would mount a horse. His skin was barely touching his face, and Damen put gentle hands on his hips, lowering him slightly until he could smell the subtle natural scent of him and taste it on his tongue. He pressed his lips to the skin of his ass once.

“Open your cheeks for me, please, love.”

Charls did as he was told, long fingers spreading himself for him. He was clean, a worry less for them, and shaved. Damianos smirked. Bless Vere and its hygiene. The view was charming, his little pink hole tightly shut in a delicate star shape, inviting and soft-looking. He gave a tentative lick, and preened when he felt Charls shiver and arch forward. He continued his caress, massaging the skin around his hole with his tongue until the skin relaxed enough for him to open him with the tip of it, making Charls moan, the vibrations of it reverberating in his mouth. Damianos was eager in his attentions now, tonguing at the skin of his cleft with a renewed fervor, intermittently coming to open him slowly with his muscle. Charls’ hips started to grind on his face, and Damen moaned as he did so. He felt his cock twitch wetly against his own stomach, aching for a relief, a caress, so pleased at the idea of bringing such raw bliss to his partner.

“I can’t—” Charls moaned. “Take it anymore. I need you to fuck me, Damianos. _Now_.”

As to punctuate his words, he dismounted, and let himself fall on his back against the mattress, still prying his cheeks open, an invitation. Damianos rose to linger between his open legs, and kissed the protrusion of his hip bone. “We don’t have oil.”

“This is Vere. There is some in the nightstand.” Damianos raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him. “Trust me.”

He did, and he did found a vial of oil in the drawer of his nightstand, laughing as he uncapped it and poured a generous amount of his fingers, until they were coating with it. He returned to Charls at once, and took his leg, nestling it on his shoulder, leaving a trail of gentle kisses on the skin there as his fingers warmed the oil. He pressed one against the skin of his chasm, rubbing his hole until it was loose and relaxed, and inserted one finger. Charls made a face for a moment, but promptly relaxed as Damen coated him in praises and pecked his ankle tenderly. He worked him with a single finger for a while, until Charls moaned quietly, and told him to hurry, which sounded more like an order than a plea. He scissored him with two fingers, and soon, a third joined them, Charls going pliant and needy under him.

“Damianos.” It sounded like a threat, “I’m ready.”

He withdrew his fingers, then, and Charls let out a shaky breath at the loss. He found the vial of oil he had discarded before on the bed, and poured the rest of it on his cock, stroking it slowly as to warm it and apply it equally everywhere. Charls’ pupils were blown as he watched him masturbate. He lowered himself until he was flush against Charls, who hooked his arms around his neck, his hands massaging his scalp, and kissed him as he positioned himself.

“Good?”

“Yes, gods, Damianos.”

He need not be told twice, and he pushed himself slowly in Charls. He moaned as his cock pressed into his warm entrance, his oversensitive tip leaking at the wet pressure there, and descended until he was fully seated. Charls had his legs around his waist, heels digging in the small of his back, pressing him even further against him. He let the young man breath and adjust to his girth, until Charls started to rock his hips against his with low exhales of pleasure, and Damen started moving slowly, in and out, until just the tip stayed inside. His back and forth movements grew more and more quick as he lost himself in the moment, the warmth of Charls pressed in his embrace, nails digging in his hair as he tried to stifle his moans against his throat, the reality of it all, Helen pliant beneath him as he ravished her with passion, the way his heart beat steadily in his chest, already enamored and obsessed with the young man beneath him, who had offered him one night in his company, who had been as attracted to Damen as he himself is toward him.

He felt his legs shaking under the weight of his emotions, and withdrew completely from Charls, who whined, pretty hole fluttering now that it was empty. Damianos laid on his side beside his lover, and taped an arm beneath his right knee, raising his leg subsequently, and forcing him to half-lay on his side too. He positioned himself with his free hand, and pressed inside impatiently, the both of them sighing at feeling intertwined once more. His movements were swift, the clap of skin against skin and their groans of hedonism echoing in the chambers. The hand of the arm that was hooked under Charls’ leg came to seek his cock, and, after smearing it with the precome that coated the tip, started to stroke it in concerto with his penetrations. Charls whined high in his throat, and one of his arm came to surround Damen’s face, caressing his hair.

“I won’t last, _fuck_ , Damen,” he breathed out.

“Come for me Charls,” he said just as breathlessly. “I want to see you as you do so.”

It took a few back and forth before Charls spilled on his stomach, shaking and arching in Damen’s embrace, as he rode out his orgasm. His hole trembled under his desire, and the tightness of it almost made Damianos lose himself too. He left Charls’ sensitive entrance, and went back to his knees, hovering above Charls, who was still panting, pink like a rose and delicate in the aftermath of passion. He stroke his cock hurriedly, and came with a grunt all over Charls’ chest. His breaths were deep and laborious as he fell back on the bed. They stayed like that, enjoying their presence side by side and bathing in their bliss for a few moments, before Damen came to hug Charls’ side. His fingers played with their cum, gathering a few ivory droplets that he brought to his mouth. Charls flushed as he did so, and sat up, watching Damianos with tender eyes. He pressed a kiss to his lips, tasting them on it, before standing from the bed and fetching a towel in the bathroom, soaked in water. He had cleaned himself during his trip, Damianos noticed, and handed him the one he brought. Damianos accepted it gratefully, and cleaned the oil from his dick and the sweat that coated him. He discarded the towel in a corner of his bedroom, and brought Charls forward again, so that he rested in his arms. They cuddled in silence, too worn out to speak, and drifted into sleep against one another.

When he woke up in the morning, Charls was gone. He despaired that he could not have shared his morning with him, hear his quips once again, or more by a most private wish of his, his tender words, his voice raw in the morning, his cold hand cradling his face. He had wished to ask him more about him, for his name, for the chance to court him as he deserved. He missed him and his presence felt like an aching need. All it had taken was one night for his heart to be set aflame with desire; one sight for his mind to be held captive by this young marble Adonis. Nikandros often told him that he fell in love quickly and easily, but never had he felt such love for anyone else, as if Aphrodite herself had descended the earth and offered him such indescribable feelings. He thought back to the prophecy, a lamb, with the kind of seldom beauty that launches a thousand ships. If all it took for Charls to be his was a war, he would deem it worth it, and if Aphrodite wished for him to stand his ground against the serpents lurking in the shadows, he would do it even blind.

He found himself knocking on Nikandros’ door, adjacent to his, as soon as he had gotten dressed and preened himself. He answered the door almost immediately, and looked up and down at Damen’s wild and restless apparence. Without a word, he invited him inside and sat down on an ottoman, extending the invitation to Damen, who preferred pacing the room. Nikandros watched him go up and down his chambers for a moment, elbows on his knees and face solemn, before he sighed and shook his head.

“Will you please tell me what is on your mind, Damen? Your pacing is making me restless as well.”

“I need your help. I need… I need to find out more about the young man I met yesterday. All I know is his name, Charls, and the way he feel under me, and—”

“ _Gosh_ ,” Nikandros laughed heartily, “Alright, Damen, no need to describe it to me. Do you want us to inquire about your mysterious conquest, then?”

“Yes. Gods, Nikandros, he was so much more than that. He was beautiful, and wise, and witty, with a way with words… I have never felt so feverish just at the mere thought of someone.”

“You think he is your Helen?”

“Yes, I _know_ it. My mind is enraptured with him and my heart beats so fast when I think of him that it cannot be otherwise. Aphrodite gave me a taste of him, so that I shall know what to stand for against my ennemis, whoever they are, and heavens, if he shall be mine after their defeat, then I shall rouse even entire legions of men for him.”

Nikandros smiled at him and got up, clasping his shoulder with his hand when he came to stand next to him. “My friend, he has you wrapped around his finger. I have never seen you like this. Fine, if you wish for it, I will inquire about him, and ask your entourage to do the same. I hope you find him before your ennemis do. Nothing in Vere stays secret for long.”

Damianos had not even thought of the danger being with Charls shall bring to him. “We will. Now, let us meet with King Auguste. He did promise us a breakfast the other day.”

The hallways of the royal wing were desert, safe for a few guards surveying the perimeter who greeted them with a nod. Auguste and his family were already seated around trails of pastries and delicacies when Damen and the Akielon party entered the private dining room, and he greeted them with myrrh, inviting them to sit and taste the finesse of Vere. They made smalltalk, while devouring their delicious breakfast. Damianos listened to Auguste speak to him about trades, asking for council as to how to broach the subject with his father in a letter, or Hildegard asking him about his health and that of his family. He responded as he was asked, but he feared that he was not as involved in the conversations as he ought to be.

“Damianos, is something on your mind?” Auguste asked him, visibly concerned with Damen’s distance.

“Yes, just… I have someone on my mind. Quite literally haunting my every thoughts.”

Auguste’s eyes sparkled at that, and he smiled brightly, his hand coming to take Damen’s. “Do tell me about them.”

“The problem is that I do not even know him well. We shared one evening, and already I see myself building a future with him. I only know of his rank, a noble, and his name, Charls.”

“Charls? I know only but one nobleman named Charls, and he is a merchant travelling to Lys as we speak to trade there.” He paused for a moment, a dreadful moment during which the notion that the young man had given him a fake name downed on Damianos. “Except… Oh, gods. Would this ‘Charls’ be the young man I was speaking to before the ball?” Damen nodded. “I— You are a friend Damianos, one that I would consider close, a confident even, so far away from the judgmental lords of Vere, so you deserve to know, I think. Stay with me after breakfast, after I’ve dismissed the rest. I will tell you who your _Charls_ is.”

“Thank you, Auguste, gods, that’s all I ask for.”

Auguste nodded, his face losing his warmth, and went back to the current discussion happening between lady Jokaste and his wife, about a Kemptian scholar and her recent discovery of an antibiotics agent that could be the cure of several common sickness. Damen was jubilating, at the prospect to know more about his mysterious lover, whose name was apparently false for some reasons, and status in court even more of an enigma, but who seemed to be a connaissance of the King and an unthreatening phantom presence in Arles, and potentially being able to court him with Auguste’s help. Breakfast ended soon after that, and Auguste released his guests and family, and, pretexting having to speak of serious affairs, kept Damen in the room. The King rose from his chair and stepped into the balcony, silently inviting Damianos to follow him. The fresh air of the morning was gentle on him, and helped cool down his flush. Auguste sighed and leaned against the marble barrier, looking down at the gardens below.

“So. _Charls_.”

“You know him, do you not? I thought he was only a young noble prying for your attentions the other day, but you know him personally.”

“That I do my friend. More than you even imagine.”

“A lover of yours?”

“Gods, no,” Auguste said with disgust. “He’s… My brother, at least that is what he has been raised as. The truth is, he is my bastard son.”

Damianos took a step back. Vere repudiated bastards, and the mere thought that Auguste, young and honest Auguste had a bastard, and one so grown, bewildered him. “How?”

“I was fifteen, you know how boys are at fifteen. It was a mistake, I slept with a Vaskian lady during one of my travels there, and I made her pregnant. Her tribe refused the child, as he was a boy, and imposed, as was law, that either the father shall take him, or he shall be thrown from the mountains. I… I could not let a child, _my_ child, suffer from my mistakes. I took him in, and my mother plotted that he shall be raised as my brother. We kept his existence secret for a year, during which my mother pretended to be pregnant and having birthed a miraculous second son at her age. Eventually, as he grew, he learned the truth, and stepped down from his position as a Prince. He was but a discreet presence at court, bookish as he was, and people soon disinterested themselves in a Prince they never saw. He became a diplomat, officially, and served my reign as an advisor in Patras, and as a confident and a grounding presence when he came home. Now, lately, he… serves me in the shadows, too, taking pride to the fact that his meager apparences to court have left him practically anonymous to my people, and finding his princely duty best accomplished in commanding my birds.”

The thought that Damianos had slept with Auguste’s son dawned in his mind, and he felt himself squirm uncomfortably. A bastard prince, a diplomat and a spy, no wonder he had been so secretive and charming the previous night. As for Auguste, he looked relieved to have been able to speak so openly about his son’s situation, without a care for judgment. Kastor was a bastard too, after all, and he had never treated him any different than he would have a blood brother and Prince. “Where can I find him, now?”

“Laurent? Probably in the library.” A pause. Auguste’s eyes opened in a panic. “But wait! Damen—!”

But he was not listening to him anymore. Damianos could only think about him, beautiful _Laurent_ , who could be as abrasive, as he could be sweet, who he now knew and would court and assist in his work as a spy if he let him. He was already turning toward the doors, swift on his feet, as Auguste hurried behind him, calling for him. Damen opened the doors in a grand gesture, and, on the threshold, addressed one last smile to Auguste, still in a frenzy, fussing over him.

“Thank you, Auguste,” he exited the room, already well advanced into the hallway, before hethought of soothing his friend’s panic: “Do not fret, I shall find the library on my own.”

From the threshold of the room, Auguste screamed: “That is not what I— Damianos, please, hear me before you pursue him— _Fuck_.”

Damianos was practically running through the halls, ignoring the nobles asking for a word, or his guards struggling to keep up with him. He only stopped once or twice to ask where the library was, his smile growing wilder and brighter as he approached. Eventually, he arrived before the imposing wooden doors of the library, white and carved delicately. He ordered for his guards to stay put in the hallway, and gently opened the door. The room was gigantic, with rows of books as walls, supported by twisted colonnades, and a fresco painted on the arched ceiling. Niches were built in-between the shelfs to offer a comfortable privacy for lecture. A second story, open on the first, with desks and more books, was built above the shelves and secured with a wooden balustrade painted in gold, and accessible through a semi-hidden spiral staircase in a corner of the room. Finding Laurent nowhere on the first story, he climbed the stairs rapidly, two by two, and found himself facing the protagonist of his fantasies. He seemed surprised, the hold he had on his book tightening, speechless. He was frowning, clearly not excepting Damianos.

“Laurent,” Damianos said softly, and the young man gasped.

“How—”

“King Auguste told me.”

“ _Auguste_ told you?”

“He told me everything about who you are.”

“I see. Then… I believe I need not hide what I am anymore.”

“You are a spy, are you not?”

“Yes,” he answered soberly, and it sent shivers down Damianos’ spine. He had always been fascinated by Veretian spies, the renown built through exciting stories and the poems on the forbidden romance between spies and civilians he had recited and read.

“I wish to help you, as long as I am here, with your prerogatives. Whoever it is you were observing last night, whatever the risk is. Auguste, no Vere, is my ally, and I wish to protect it as much as you do. Believe me when I say that. I am no Veretian lord, my words and sentiments are true, and my interests shall always lie with yours, if you let me. I am a foreigner, they think me a brute or uncultured, I can have access to information people whisper about in the hallways, and play people right.”

Laurent flushed and hesitantly walked back to a nearby desk, where books and parchments were laying hazardly, covered in ink. He looked for something in the clustering mess it was, and presented a sealed letter to Damianos, whom had been opened previously. He took it, and read it silently. At first glance, it was nothing but a letter from a Southern lord, if the dialect was any indication, to a noble from Patras about trades and silks. But the insistance on the _quality_ and _usefulness_ of the silks bothered him, though he could not pinpoint exactly why. Laurent watched him intensely as he read, and his eyes were questioning once he had finished.

“I do not know what to say. It does seem like a regular letter but… Something about it seems prejudiced.”

Laurent nodded. “Because it is not about silks, but _people_.”

“I thought slavery was illegal in Vere.”

“It is. It is, and yet the lords partake in it. I… cannot be sure as to why. They never had a tradition of slavery, even before the law banning it, so it is not about that. Money, of course, is the clearest objective, but why? They are rich lords, they have mines and accords with Patras, Vask and Akielos as to taxes and customs dues. If the registers and complaints are correct, the first abductions of youths started a few months ago, and the South was still thriving at that time. I thought… of treason, perhaps, but… I cannot even phantom a motive. Do they plan on buying their independence? Fight for it? They always were hostile to the Crown, even more so after the treaty that gave half of Marlas to Akielos, but they never expressed the wish to… become independent. Most of the lords send their sons in the North to become politicians in the capital, and it is a part of their power than to be integrated to the Kingdom.”

The sheer logic and intelligence in his reasoning made Damianos abnormally aroused and a wave a love rolled over him. “How can I — _we_ — help you.”

“Will you? Help me, I mean. You could benefit from these slave trades, in the end.”

“Our slaves are not abducted citizens, and liberty is a value in Akielos. A free man shall never be a slave.”

“Ah, but _what_ difference is there between a free man and a slave? His birth? How can an act so natural as existing can private you from freedom, still, and what inherent difference is there between a slave and a man that justifies that one is in chains while the other thrives with the pain of the other?”

“The gods have decided as such.”

“So you would let the gods hold captive your own judgement and dictate how you shall live?”

“It is merely one of their power, to affect men as such. Gods make slaves and free men, the same way Aphrodite made me your slave when I thought myself free.”

Laurent turned his head away, as to hide the shadow of his smile. “Clever, to distract me as such. It is not a discussion I intend to leave unanswered, but… Fine, I accept and welcome your help nonetheless. In truth, I am most in need of it. I cannot send soldiers to stop the trades, nor spies. I cannot even convoke them to face justice with nothing but a stolen letter that will be forwarded in any case and my own logic. I need them to be exposed, for their trades to be revealed to the people, this way they shan’t escape their punishment. I need you to convince a _kyros_ , or an Akielon lord to extended an invitation to them, saying that rumors has it they trade some of the best slaves on the borders. When they shall make way for Akielos, I need some of your soldiers stationed at the border to arrest them and search their wagons. By law of the treaty, you have the right to arrest them and present the culprits to the Crown, with the ultimate proof of their deeds. I will make the link with the Southern lords myself, with the wagons or the weapons on the men, and Auguste shall punish them as he sees fit. Can I count on you?”

“Always, Laurent.”

For a week they met in the library, working on their scheme. The tension between them was still here, in their shared whispers and the way their knees were attached to one another. They shared deep conversations in the deep of the night, Laurent relentless in proving the flawed reasoning behind Damianos’ pitiful excuse for slavery, while making Damen a slave for his attention. Once or twice, they had shared passionate kisses in the privacy of a niche, and had let their hands roam freely on their bodies, the reminiscence of the previous night like a ghost around them. Each moment spent with Laurent set his heart ablaze, and he was convinced that he would die, if the gods did not permit them to be together. Perhaps, he thought, had this slave trade been the black blood, the evil, and that in standing by Laurent’s side instead of the possible boons it could have brought to Akielos in the future, he had succeeded in making him his.

Eventually, after their week of hard labor, their plan had been ready, and perfectly executed in the span of a few days. The lord of Corinth had been diligent in his role, for he too arbored slavery, and, as a dutiful servent of Aphrodite, was, body and soul, dedicated to the Crown, the proud descendants of the goddess herself. The soldiers had especially appointed for the task had been efficient, andhad brought them the traders themselves to Arles, riding hard to the capital. Auguste had them sentence to the capital punishment, and after Laurent had proved the complicity of the Southern lords, they had been sentenced to a heavy fine, and the seizing of some of their lands in retribution. The Council had deemed the sentence magnanimous, and had supported their King’s decision, even as the Southern representative trembled with rage, either at seeing the proprieties of their clients or patrons taken away, or at seeing such disrespect of Veretian values at the hand of their fellow citizens, Damen did not know.

After this episode, Laurent and Damianos found themselves regularly blessed with the presence of one another. Free of his chronophage duties, Laurent could indulge himself in spending his days with Damianos, when his evenings were spent writing reports or watching the affairs of the court with his little birds. As for Damianos, he spent most of his nights dreaming of him, and searching for a meaningful gifts to give to Laurent, tokens of his love after officially asking Auguste for the chance to court his son, and spent his days wandering around Arles, sometimes with the King himself if he had the time, who appeared more reserved with him than before, but more than often with his own suite. Pallas and his guards were charmed by their Prince’s romance with a Veretian spy, and longed to hear Damen’s tales each time they met, of how he helped topple the slave trade, and how he met Laurent in secret, passionate meetings whenever they could. Nikandros and Jokaste were both happy for him too, but expressed their reserve, as to the prophecy in their opinion not yet accomplished, and the fact, beyond the secrecy of their relationship, Laurent was still officially Auguste’s brother and an eminent politician in court.

“You need to ask for his hand, if you wish to court him, Exalted,” Jokaste had said to him around a cup of tea one evening where they found themselves alone in his chambers. “He may be an adult, but he is still under the authority of his King, and even more under that of his brother.”

“I shall, lady Jokaste. It is the only thing on my mind.”

She smiled at him. “Aphrodite has you under her spell, I see. I wish you a positive answer, Exalted. It would sadden me to see you two torn apart, but if you prevail adversities, then you shall be rewarded.”

Damianos requested an audience with Auguste in the days that followed, which was mercifully granted to him rapidly. He dressed in his best costume, aided by Jokaste and Kyrina, jacket flaunting the colors of Venus symbolically, red, gold and white, and complemented with a white cape embroidered with the roses of love she was said to have braided into her hair. He kneeled before Auguste, a sign of outmost respect, and took a deep breath. His nerves were aflame, his blood drumming in his veins at the prospect of spending his days with Laurent.

“King Auguste,” he began, his voice echoing in the courtroom. The traditional words of courtship went to him naturally: “Members of the Council. I kneel before you on this day to solemnly ask for you and yours gods to grant me the chance to court the King’s younger brother, Prince Laurent. I swear that I hold nothing but the best intentions for him, and wish to love him indefinitely, for as long as Venus shall bless me with him.”

The Councilmen looked at each others, visibly conflicted as Damianos raised his head to watch their reaction. It was not as enthusiastic as he had hoped, but ultimately, only Auguste could grant him his hand, and he hoped that his friend was more delighted at the prospect. He was not. His face was pitiful, and he looked at Damen with sad, sympathetic eyes. Damen felt his heart drop in his chest.

“Prince Damianos, Exalted. Your request is an honor to me and my brother, of that there is no doubt. I have seen the care you hold for him, but I fear that Prince Laurent is engaged to another man already, a request he has accepted himself. I cannot go back on _his_ word. If it had been different, I would have graciously let you court him for as long as he desired and ultimately supported your union, but I cannot grant you his love, not at the moment, when he had him accepted to be courted by someone else.”

Damianos felt like crying. “I… I understand. I was not aware of that fact, believe me, and meant no offense, neither to the Crown, nor to the Prince’s fiancé. I shall take back my vows, then. I thank you for your time, your Majesty.”

He rose to his feet and addressed a final bow to the King, who still looked at him with nothing but hurt in his eyes, before leaving the room. He felt his chest tighten, as if he was suffocating. Could it be that Laurent was not the Helen of his prophecy? Or that it was all a sweet lie? He had defeated the Southern lords with his help, he had stayed true to his loyalty toward Auguste even knowing that trades would bring prosperity to Akielos did he not interfere and let his father participate in their deals. A boon to his future, it would have been.

His feet naturally led to the library, where he knew Laurent would probably be, as he asked him to. He hesitated, before the doors, unsure exactly of what he felt. Was he angry at Laurent for not telling him sooner? Why would he be, they had never discussed a courtship, after all, and the subject had had no occasion to be brought up in a conversation. Still, their relationship felt illicit now, with the knowledge of a fiancé between them, even though he never saw his lover with anyone else. Then, perhaps did he not know Laurent that well, after all. He pushed the doors opened, nonetheless, and found Laurent sitting in a niche, with only his boots indicating his presence. He walked to him, and Laurent’s sheepish smile deflated as he saw his face.

“Damianos?”

“You never told me you were engaged,” he said sadly. His anger, if he felt any, did not transpire in his words, only the ache he felt, raw and terrible.

Laurent sighed. “I… I had forgotten about it, in the moments I spent with you, when you treated me not as a prince, or a spy or anything else than _me_.”

“You accepted that man’s request of courtship.”

“I did, yes.” The admission was like a knife plunging into his flesh. “But, please, before any affection that you may still have toward me dies, let me explain.”

Damen doubted that he could ever stop loving him. “I— Fine.”

“I am engaged, to Auguste’s cousin, Aimeric. Believe me when I say that I have no affection for him, not even an ounce. I know he offered to marry me to gain something, prestige or money, and as a Southern lord I fear he has other hidden intentions. He has never been discreet, nor as bright as he thinks. I know he is hiding something, and that he regularly exchanges with the Patran King for some obscure reasons, as well as Akielos. He burns the letters before I can read or intercept them, I have to give to him that he knows how to evade my surveillance, but he must have had a role in the slave trade, and maybe even in something greater. Perhaps he and his father are the investigator of the South’s wish for independence. I accepted his proposal out of conveniences, and to keep an eye on him, nothing more. He believes me sweet and pliant, still the child I once was and whom he met years ago, easily malleable and not one for Veretian deception, having spend most of my public life in Patras. I never had the intention to marry him.”

“If… If you find him guilty of whatever it is you hold against him… And see his vows nullified, would you accept mine?”

Laurent chuckled, a beautiful sound at that moment, and rose to embrace Damen. The softness of the gesture sent Damianos’ heart soaring. “Yes, I would. I was not aware that you would… I would have told you before if I knew.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“It is an agreeable one. I— I have never felt like that, you know. You would be my first… _lover_.”

“I have never felt like that with anyone else either. The joy you bring me is indescribable. I thought, for a long time, that an army of horsemen, foot soldiers or ships was the fairest thing on earth, with all the marvels and excitement that war brought, but I would gladly turn blind to everything but the radiant glance of your face or the lovely way you watch me.”

He felt Laurent’s grip on his clothes tighten. His eyes were closed, and he looked so vulnerable that Damen passed a broad hand in his hair, petting it comfortingly. “ _I love you_ ,” he murmured. “You, and your every kindness toward me. From the beginning you have been nothing but open and warm, you offered me patience and pleasure as if I deserved and, and never did you ever abuse the trust I put in you. You’re true, and I know that if I gave you my heart, you would treat it tenderly. I know that I ask a lot of you, but… Would you assist me once more? In unveiling the schemes and plots of Vere? You are my best ally there.”

“Just tell me what to do, and I will,” he answered as he kissed the crown of Laurent’s head. “I told you I would help you however I could, and that my interests would always align with yours. If you believe him a traitor, I cannot stand idly while Vere faces a threat from within that could shatter the peace between our countries, or your family.”

“Thank you. Words cannot express my gratitude. So, please, let me show you?”

Laurent’s hands came to rest on Damen’s hips, massaging the cloth there, to indicate his intentions. Slowly, they crept lower, inward, until his long fingers grazed his groin, and the young man slowly started to go to his knees in front of him. Damen inhaled loudly.

“You don’t have to…”

“I _want_ to.”

Damianos nodded — there was not much he could do in his state. The mere thought of Laurent taking him in his mouth, that he knew could be vicious, he saw it at the trial of the traitors or when he talked about the nobles in their private moments, as much as it was wise. Laurent would be denied his best weapon, his words, stuffed with Damen’s shaft, and as much as he liked to hear Laurent talk and had appreciated his commanding demeanor during their first night, it sent a wave of arousal thrumming through him, like a deep pyre in his gut, where butterflies waltzed in apprehension. The kneeling figure before him unlaced his trousers, and lowered them just enough that he could get his prick out. With no oil, Laurent spit graciously on it to stroke it firmly a few time, until he deemed it hardened enough to start licking and sucking the tip. Damianos groaned, unbashful; he thanked the gods no one but Laurent seemed to use the royal library. He brought his hands to his lover’s hair, petting the softness, before Laurent discard his hands and brought them back on each side of him.

“Do not touch me.”

“Laurent—” he groaned in answer.

He liked to fondle, to feel his partners. He was a tactile person, he never hid it, and the private, possessive gesture of _touching_ was arousing. Laurent asking him to stay put was both a torture, and coming from him, who revealed Damen’s hidden submissive streak, made him harden considerably. He blossomed in Laurent’s authority and orders, where he normally would have found it unwelcomed.

“Just observe.”

He fisted his hands by his side, as Laurent went down once again, his pale fingers curling around his shaft shallowly, and started rubbing, coating it in his saliva. The wet sounds made Damen moan low in his throat. After what felt like a torturous eternity, Laurent took him into his mouth once again, teasing his slit and the heart-shaped skin there. Damianos felt ready to explode. His hands rested comfortably on his hips, circling the bones there in a soothing gyrating motion.

“Laurent,” he groaned.

He did not deign respond with anything but a soft humming sound that sent vibrations on the sensitive, feverish skin. Damen’s hands at his side flexed harshly until his knuckles were white. Eventually, Laurent went deeper, until Damen’s cock hit the back of his throat, his tongue drawing the underside of it marvelously. The desire was burning more potent each passing second, like a white-hot presence squeezing Damen’s heart until he could feel nothing but it, the hard drum marking the cadence. It felt surreal, to have Laurent on his knees in front of him, a halo of pure pleasure, so magnificent as he bobbed his golden head quicker and quicker as his own arousal consumed him. One of his pale, graceful hand left his hip to stroke his erection in time with the movements of his tongue, as Damen’s mind became a white haze.

“Laurent, _Laurent_ , gods, I’m going to—”

The young man sped up his movements, keeping Damianos secure in the wet heat of his mouth, petals of coral stretched prettily around his manhood. The friction was to much, and Damen came with a low groan and a shallow thrust of his hips. In his climax, he barely registered Laurent straighten and kiss him, so sloppily and passionately that it made Damen moan. He could still taste himself on his tongue and on his lips, savoring the deeply erotic gesture. When he drew back, he saw that some pearly drops remained on the corner of the Prince’s lips, and he kissed them softly, licking the white honey clean as Laurent made a soft sound of surprise.

“Did you… enjoy it?,” Laurent said softly.

“Of course I did.” Damen looked down. He smirked. “Will you be alright?”

“ _Of course_ ,” Laurent scoffed. “The soreness in my throat is enough to temper down even the flames of Vesta.”

Damen chuckled. “I would not mind in the least.”

“I do not require your services. I think I need a drink. Would you like to walk with me? ”

Laurent offered him his arm, to punctuate his words, and led him through the palace and beautiful atriums he had not yet seen, until they reached the private royal gardens, a square of green decorated with marble colonnades and small niches nestled in a single patio, a mesh of silks, cushions and books gathered in a neat pile. It was very obviously one of Laurent’s favorite place, so full of his touch despite sharing it with the rest of his family. They sat in the patio, and the servent they had gathered and appointed as theirs during the trip went to fetch tea and pastries for the afternoon’s meal. They talked, soft spoken words whispered only for them to hear, in a reenactment of their first ever conversation. They spoke of Nikandros’ odd relationship with Nicaise, how he taught him to wield a sword and drink wine like an Akielon, which had made the Queen laugh brightly, coming from a land where hydromel was said to flow in the rivers and where babes were bathed in wine. Their conversation led them to Akielos, in general, Laurent ever so curious about the similarities and differences between their countries, as their sprouts were interlinked. It was one Kingdom, once, or so the myths said. They talked until the moon spilled her golden ink through the columns, and the torches of the castle slowly died down.

In a timid voice, full of the shyness of a green inamorato, and after witnessing the advanced hours of the night, Laurent had offered him to stay in his chambers, as his were closer to the gardens as Damen’s. The excuse was only a legitimization of his demand, and he found it to be the most endearing thing he had witnessed his Laurent, who was still new to relationships, the bluntness of Akielons, and the sort of unofficial courtship that established naturally between them. He accepted with myrrh, jubilating at the idea of sharing the night with Laurent and having the opportunity to wake up next to his lover, to kiss his pink lips still drowsy with sleep and embrace him tranquilly until their breakfast was served. 

Laurent’s room were not unlike his, spacious and beautiful, but just a touch more tamely. They looked deeply personal, permeated with books, flowers and a few jewels on a white and golden vanity. Mosaics decorated the room, depicting great Veretian legends, fights mostly, between the gods and the giants that were said have been subdued to form the soil from which had sprung the first men. Laurent led them to his bedroom, cheeks a light red still, and applied to discarding his jacket. Damianos could not move, his breath caught in his throat as he watched the long fingers work the laces keeping his body hostage to the world. It felt more erotic, watching Laurent slowly, teasingly, undress before him to change into a long translucent nightgown, his back on display, his long, smooth legs bending ever so often to get his boots off. The young man’s chuckle brought him back to earth.

“Are you not going to change? Do Akielons sleep in their day clothes?”

“I was…”

“Admiring the view?”

“You could say that. May I sleep in the nude, or would your sensibilities be upset?”

“You forget that I slept with you in the nude before. My sensibilities will be just fine.”

He was smiling, as he sat on the bed, and Damen could feel his eyes on him, malicious and curious, as he undid the laces — with great pain, which made his lover snicker from his comfortable position on the bed. Once fully naked in the soft glow of the candles, he heard Laurent gasp gently, and smirked at him.

“Like what you see?”

“You know I do. Come, hold me.”

Damianos could not refuse. He walked to the other side of the bed and lay down, waiting for Laurent to take his place against him. His skin was warm beneath his cloth, as it pressed against his left flank. He let his hands roam Damen’s chest, playing with the curls on his pectorals with delight. Damen watched, mesmerized, the digits trace the muscles there, so softly it made the touch burn with tenderness and a vague sentiment of lust. The journey of Laurent’s fingers acted as a lull to him, and he soon found himself fighting back a yawn, sinking deeper in the feathery mattress. Eventually, he fell asleep.

When he woke up, Laurent was not in the bed, and his heart clenched, as it had, nights ago when Charls had disappeared after their night of passion. He got up strenuously, and dressed slowly, not yet wanting to leave the bedroom totally, and the memory of Laurent’s body flush against his in sleep. When he pushed open the door to the main room, he found Laurent, sitting at his table, near the balcony, bent over books and parchments, with a cup of steaming liquid near him. Damianos closed his eyes, relieved, and thoughts immediately besieged him, pictures of what it could be, if his prophecy was true and he prevailed against the black blood that he guessed was actually Aimeric. He advanced slowly and inconspicuously toward him, as he did not seem to have notice him, and approached his hands towards his shoulders. Before he could touch the man beneath him, he heard Laurent laugh as he dipped his feather in ink.

“Hello, Damen. Did you sleep well?”

Damen groaned. “I did, I slept longer than I intended to. I cannot believe you heard me approach.”

“I think it is sweet that you tried, but it is my job to be discreet. I felt you come.”

“You have to teach me how you do it.”

“I will,” the young man smiled adoringly. “Some other day perhaps. Breakfast shall arrive shortly. I’m afraid that I cannot stay confined longer than the meal, but feel free to stay longer if you so desire. I can ask for a bath to be prepared for you, if you wish.”

“I’ll be fine, thank you, my love.” Damen noted the flush that colored Laurent’s cheeks as he continued writing to hide it behind his golden hair, and hummed contently. “I think I will enjoy some time to train, for whatever you will need me for.”

Laurent nodded, flushed, the color of a rose presented before Aphrodite, his pale skin glowing with the ecstasy of simply thinking and sharing with a lover, just as a servant knocked on the door to present them with a tray full of pastries and fruits, as well as juices and a sweet beverage known as _calidus granum_ , which Laurent seemed to adore. As they ate, they accorded on a simple plan. For now, Damen’s soldiers were simply to dedicate themselves to the security of Auguste and himself, since no one but them could be trusted, while Laurent recalled his spies back from Patras as soon as he could, in the hope they could have discovered something about either Torgeir or Torveld, and their role in Aimeric’s plot in the month they were granted. After establishing a course of action and finishing his drink, Laurent had busied himself with other minor diplomatic matters, exchanging sometimes on lighter topics such as silks or soaps, while Damen simply watched him work for a few more minutes before he had to leave. It felt strangely intimate, to share Laurent’s space like this, to be let through a small passage in his field of work, to have Laurent’s entire trust. He doubted Laurent had told him everything about schemes and plots in Vere, but that fact that he trusted him with his father, the dearest person in his life, meant a lot, and made his heart soar to rest on Venus’ full thighs as she sat on her brocaded throne above.

Days went by tranquilly, without Laurent ever seeking him to tell him about their plan, but to simply spend time in his presence and share secret rendez-vous whenever they could. They eclipsed behind the tall bushes of the gardens to exchange kisses and caresses, they spent their nights with each other when Laurent was not employed somewhere else, they traded glances during banquets and gifts in the privacy of their rooms. They laid together a few times, and Damen cherished each time he could feel Laurent’s naked body under his palms. A few times he had even let Laurent penetrate him, a thing he had never experience before, and he discovered the pleasure being underneath a man could bring. A shameful man would have blushed at the memory of how fast he came the first time Laurent had fingered him thoroughly, massaging his prostate until he spilled in a scream. His lover worked in the shadows both to bring him pleasure and tenderness and to keep his country secure. Never had Damen known a better man, that embodied the fantasy of myths and novels, true and loyal to his father, so much that he laid his life at his feet and discarded every titles and lands he owned for him, and could bring men to their knees with just a soft whisper and a nudge. The heroes of the novels he had read, the plays he had seen, were nothing on him. Their idyll was also spent in the relative shadows that constantly shrouded Laurent, like a wedding veil or a morning fog, but with the implicit consent of Auguste, who must have noticed by now Damianos’ tendency to sigh ever so often as he thought of his son and came to accept it with humor.

It was easy to forget, then, everything around them: Damen’s quest for a spouse almost coming to term with the end of the court season in a short month, Laurent’s fiancé, the schemes to prevent the South from raging war against the Crown for independence or to prevent them from getting it at all. Only when Laurent received a letter from Aimeric, stating that he would arrive soon, coming back from a small vacation at his family’s estate, and hoped that he could accord him some attention as to complete their courtship, did reality hit Damianos, harshly and mercilessly. Jealousy was burning in his veins at the mere mention of him, destructive as a storm, to the point where Nikandros had to drag him to the training grounds to fight the anger out of him before he teared the palace apart. Jokaste was of no help, simply telling him to wait, and that trials would only make their love grow and prosper in the future, that he had to stand his grounds and play Laurent’s game, as much as he hated it. The courtship was pure convenience, a mean to keep an eye on Aimeric, he did not love him, and reserved his love only for Damen.

True to his words, Aimeric came two days later, with a small contingent of buff guards and servants.He was not as Damen imagined him. He was young, Laurent’s age if he had to guess, and lovely. His face was long and smooth, finely shaped in a sharp diamond of soft brown skin, typical of Southerners, enhanced by freckles and framed by auburn curls that came to his jaw. His eyes were round and soft, a deep emerald color, and seemed gentle at first glance. If Damen did not know better, he would have mistaken Aimeric for a green courtier, true in his feelings of admiration for his prince and wishing for a romance poets wrote about. Looks could be deceitful, he came to learn. As soon as he stepped into the palace and saw Laurent waiting for him there, as he never went without he royal retinue to the bottom of the hill Damen learned, he bowed with a bright smile and took his hand to bring it to his plush lips. The Akielon delegation, which was waiting next to Laurent tensed. They knew Damen and he were lovers, and they better than anyone knew how Damianos reacted to men flirting with his lovers. Naos himself had once tried to convince another young man with which they trained to sleep with him, only for Damen to duel him to dissuade him to ever lay with the young man, who had been Damen’s lover then, a source of comfort in the long months spent in the countryside and at the border with Patras.

“Your Highness, Laurent, my fiancé. Lovely to see you in good health.”

“The pleasure is all mine Aimeric,” he answered sweetly. “How was your journey? I trust your family is doing well?”

“It was good, thank you. They are, your Highness. My mother cannot wait to welcome you into the family. She already adores you.”

His smile was saccharine as he came to take Laurent’s arm in his, letting Auguste lead them to the grand reception room, where distinguished guests ate with the King every so often for peculiar occasion. The younger Prince’s fiancé coming back to court must be one of them. Aimeric stood next to Laurent, of course, and spared him glances every so often. If his feelings of love were faked, he could not hide the slight hunger in his eyes, though if it was for Laurent or the position he would offer him, Damen did not know, and did not appreciate it in any case. Nikandros pinched him beneath the table.

“Behave,” he whispered. “We have discussed it already, Laurent is yours, trust him in what he does, as much as we hate it.”

Damen nodded imperceptibly for Nikandros, and forced his gaze to wander the rest of the table. Nicaise, who sat in front of him as his rank dictated, was watching him with a smirk and he flicked a piece of bread at his head when his mother was not looking. He exaggeratedly mouthed what Damen understood as “ _cuckhold_ ”, as he pointed his fork at Laurent, who acted coy and loving in the presence of his fiancé, and Aimeric whispering between themselves. He flushed, more ashamed than angry at the tease, and at the knowledge that Nicaise knew of his relationship with his “brother”. He should have expected Auguste to talk about it with his wife and son, with the promise not to talk about it with anyone else, and certainly not the court who believed Laurent to be engaged and smitten with Aimeric. Nikandros, who had watched the scene warily, put his hand up and presented his palm to Nicaise in a moutza, which the boy must have learned for he laughed highly, and waved his hand, focusing on his mother instead then. The rest of the dinner went by smoothly, Damen conversing amiably with Nikandros and Makedon, purposefully ignoring Jokaste gazing at him from her place at the end of the table. Laurent did not look at him for the entirety of the meal.

Aimeric’s presence changed their habits drastically. More than often, Laurent was forced to enjoy some time with his fiancé, at least for apparences’ sake. The court might not know him well, unused to seeing their young Prince in Arles, but they did know Aimeric, who was on the contrary quite the courtier with the support of his father. Most of the time, they walked in the gardens, exchanging faked timorous glances, a secret battle for information in a simple conversation, or they dined together, always in Laurent’s apartments. Damianos barely saw the young man privately anymore, only sometimes in the dead of the night to trade a kiss or a murmur, and then he was gone, evaporated into the fog surrounding Arles. Thus, he dedicated his time to the mission that was bestowed upon him. He sought Auguste more, to his surprise, and spent his moments with him. He was glad for the easy friendship between them, and it felt like he was a young man again, playing with a mate during their free time at the _agoge_. They sparred, they rode, they ate together. Never once did Auguste mention Laurent, simply enjoying Damen’s company. An afternoon after they had sparred, Auguste had invited him for tea in his chambers, despite being still dirty and sweaty with effort, his golden hair almost black at his temples. It did not seem to bother him, as he sat in his expensive chairs in his soiled clads and invited Damen to do the same.

“So,” Auguste started with a polite smile. “You let me win, did you not? I told you not to hold back. I wish to get better with a spear, truly.” 

Damen scoffed. “I did not. You _are_ good, you seem to have been born with a spear in your hand, as Herakles did.”

“Ah, your words are going to make me dizzy with pride, I _must_ beg you to stop,” he said with a touch of good humor, bringing a hand to his forehead in a theatrical emphasis. His smile faltered slightly. “It has been good to be in your company, lately, to have some time to ourselves. I am sorry my Kingdom has kept me this busy, though I heard that it did not quite inconvenienced you that much, did it? I trust Laurent has made you feel… welcomed.”

Damianos coughed audibly as he chocked on his tea. Auguste smirked, a malicious thing, which hold both amusement and a touch of protectiveness. “He has, I—”

“Do not worry, what I told you all those days ago is still relevant. You are a great friend and I believe you shall treat him with dignity. Nothing a war can not settle.”

“Is that a threat?” Damen laughed, but he knew that beneath the joke and the airy tone, Auguste was capable of demanding Damen to duel him for his son, if the love they each had for the other was any indication.

“Threats are for weaklings who will not see them through. A warning, more like. I know your reputation, and I do not wish for my son to become just another passing fantasy.”

“You know it is not like that. I promise I want more with Laurent than just…”

“I believe you. Laurent has never been more luminous than with you. Do you see him still?”

“Not as much as would like to,” he admitted, letting a sigh slip out of his mouth.

“He suspects Aimeric of treason, does he not?”

Damianos startled at that. He knew Laurent had yet to speak with his brother of that, and that he would prefer to nip the dissidence in the bud as not to worry Auguste with it. His reaction was apparently answer enough, for the King nodded pensively and intertwined his hands, letting his elbows rest on the table.

“I thought as much the moment Aimeric asked for his hand and Laurent accepted. They never held each other close to their hearts. You know of it, do you not? Please, tell me.”

“I do not know if I should. Laurent asked me not to and—”

“Need I make it an order? Disobeying a King can be punished. Laurent will understand.”

“He suspects the South of craving independence. He believes the slave trade was but the financement of it.”

“So Aimeric’s marriage would be a reason to hold Laurent hostage against the Crown for their freedom.”

Damianos shivered. Laurent had only spoken of the dowry that would come with him, and that would finance their revolt as well as make them gain some territories, but never had he presented the situation as such. In retrospective, Damen should have thought about it, that Laurent would partially hinder the truth that would ultimately make Damen flinch as he did now. Auguste had a keener eye for deceit and intrigues that Laurent gave him credit for. He probably knew of that plot from just the whispers he himself could hear in the hallways, even without Laurent pitching in to unveil the plot to him.

“He has asked you to keep an eye on me.” A statement, that Auguste knew to be true already. Damen nodded slowly. “It hurts me that you need my son’s push to spend time with me, I really do.” The humor was back again, but Damen could not help the wince that overtook him.

“Believe me when I said I had missed our conversations. You are my friend still, and I regret how busy you have been.”

“Me too, Damianos. But, I dare say that if you are true in becoming my son-in-law that you shall not stop hearing from me.”

“No doubts about it,” he smiled easily. It was easy to imagine how it would be, with Laurent in his court, his King consort, trading anecdotes about Auguste or reading his letters in front of a warm fire. He would welcome the Veretian royal family in the winters, a sort of respite from their court, and a chance to see their parent again.

A knock on the door disturbed the moment, and Auguste ordered for the man to enter. He was young, long and lean, and held himself with poise, so much that his presence was almost imperceptible, as he did not exist. He was dressed in tight black clothing that covered half of his face and a great amount of red hair. He bowed before Auguste, before closing the door behind him. He checked the room punctiliously for a minute, during which neither men talked, his eyes stopping on Damen for long seconds, before fetching a rolled parchment from a back pocket hidden in his boot.

“Your Majesty.”

“Ancel,” he greeted him with solemn eyes.

“Your brother has asked me to deliver this letter to you. It came two mornings ago, from Patras, and he believes it requires your entire attention. He said to read it safely and privately. I can guide you to a quieter place, if you so desire.”

“Patras?” he said, more to himself than to the red-haired spy, in barely a whisper. “Very well, I will follow you.” He hesitated for a moment, sitting in his chair and looking at Damen. Under the heavy gaze, he stood, and almost saluted them both. “Stay, you are involved in this as much as Laurent is. Let us not put him in danger if he has to repeat the content of the letter to you. I believe he wanted you with me to read the letter.”

Auguste stood, and put a hard hand on his shoulder, pushing him towards his bedroom. They came to face back wall, where tapestries were hung and sheltered by a few curtains around the bed, and pushed a stone behind one. As expected, a passage opened behind, and Ancel took the lead, entering first in the dark, narrow hallway behind it. Damianos look at it, slightly taken aback — though knowing Vere he should not have — and Auguste pushed him forward before engulfing in the passageway himself. It closed as soon as Ancel took a torch from its hold. They walked for a few minutes, descending at least three staircases in the daedalus hidden in the walls and hollows of the palace, before reaching the room Ancel had mentioned, a sober chamber made of simple stones, with a few tables scattered in between walls of books, lit only by a few candles. There were no windows, and no riches there, a secret cave that was not meant to welcome royalties or guests, in what he guessed was a room for spies to dwell in, as it was devoid of anything pragmatically useful other than a calm space to think.

As soon as they sat at one of the table, Ancel left them a semblance of privacy and went to hide in the shadows of a corner with another parchment in his hand. Auguste unrolled the letter, which bore no seal nor sigil, and proceed to read it content with a frown. Damen wanted to pass his thumb on the wrinkles between his brows, in what he could only interpret as a nervous thought. The King’s eyes scanned the letter multiple times, until he eventually clicked his tongue and slammed the paper on the table.

“May I?” Damen asked, gesturing to the letter. Auguste let him have it wordlessly.

The letter was written in an obscure Veretian dialect that Damen had all the troubles in the world reading, but who, for the sake of appearances, never asked Auguste for help. He struggled on some words, but ultimately understood roughly what it was about. It was a letter from Torveld, the younger brother of King Torgeir, thus the ancient Veretian dialect he used, for more discretion and in hope that only people who knew how to speak it, intellectuals initiated to the subtle art of deception and history, could decipher it promptly. Torveld would know if someone had tried to translate it in the mean time, for he knew the letter would arrive quickly, and only three days, from the date written on top, were permitted to get a positive response in a code written by Laurent, and Laurent only, for he was the only person Torveld knew the handwriting of: a day for his rider to get to Arles, one for a Veretian to ride to Bazal, one for Torveld’s spies to confirm the code and the handwriting. If anything were to happen, while he had no doubt that nothing of consequence would happen to him, it would sign Vere’s end, and Torveld would then open his lands to any fugitive who desired so.

He had been approached by Laurent’s spies, who put a mild trust in him when they saw that Torveld’s interests aligned more with the _status quo_ of Vere, than with the prospect of a new alliance with Aimeric’s family. Torveld had then been persuaded to write a letter to Laurent, unveiling what he knew of the plot, and the role of Patras in it, which consisted in lending forces as well as some money, in the hope to gain benefits out of the coup.

In his letter, he described what he knew, how Aimeric’s father had pushed his son into wedding Laurent so that he could ascend to the throne after riots, which he would orchestrate and finance, erupted everywhere in Vere, incited by Patran mercenaries craving for a battle and the riches it will bring them, against the Crown. The goal was to lead the riots closer and closer to the palace, until eventually Auguste and his family perished in a riot, making Laurent heir by default as the King’s brother, and Aimeric his consort. Aimeric would then send Laurent to Patras, with the implicit consent for the two royals to “deal with him as seen fit”, and with a consequent salary for the trouble. Patras would earn riches, battle experience, and a political hostage to consort with, for Torveld wrote soberly that Laurent was a gift for him and the affection which he cultivated for him. It made Damen’s blood boil. Vere would earn a new King, a puppet for lord Guion to manipulate, and the South would inherit the royal gold.

Auguste was still lost in thoughts by the time Damen finished. He stayed mute, he could find no words to say. It was Auguste who broke the silence.

“I need to send Nicaise and Hildegard away.”

“I would advise against that, father,” the clear, smooth voice of Laurent said from somewhere to Damen’s left. “Any suspicious move could trigger Aimeric and his partisans to diverge from their current plan and try a more straight-forward attack. I assure you that I will see that they are safe, while I deal with that threat accordingly. It is the safest course of action, believe me.”

Auguste sighed, and massaged his temples, looking all of a sudden years older, tired and defeated. “You know I trust you, Laurent, but I— I can’t help but…”

Laurent’s features softened imperceptibly. “I know you worry. I do too. But if Aimeric ever learns that we know… I imagine that we will have to deal with worse than a few riots in Barbin. We have already appeased some of them as of late, we can do it again, and this time arrest the rioters and try to root the mercenaries in their ranks until we slowly find proof that Guion is behind it and execute him fairly. If we are effective, we can settle this in a month, and we will gain approval from the nobility at having dealt justly about it, as well as insight on the people’s condition to cement your reign in the future.”

“Fine,” Auguste conceded in a soft voice. “Do what you must. I will pretend not to know a thing while you deal with it. But if you ever need anything…”

“He is not alone in this,” Damen pipped in. “Why risk our discretion by making him seek you. My suite will stand by Laurent and provide what he needs, more discreetly than if the Crown does so. At worse, Aimeric will not notice foreign transactions, at best he will believe us to be hostile to Vere after all.”

“You would do that?”

“You know I will, my friend.”

“It is settled then,” Laurent said after a brief, tense pause in the discussion. “I will take my leave now, you should return to your chambers before anyone notices your absence. If they do, say you were frolicking in the training rooms.”

The last bit was said with a teasing smile, which made Auguste laughed loudly, while Damen flushed a deep red. He seemed please with their reactions, a smile dangling on his lips, and bowed courtly to his father before leaving through another hidden door. Ancel reappeared as soon as he was gone, in a whole other outfit of green silks and gaudy jewelry. A pet, then. He was smiling.

“Follow me, I will bring you back to the King’s chambers. And give me the letter, I shall make it disappear.”

Damen complied and handed the paper over. Ancel poured an acidic liquid over it, and burnt it with the torch he was carrying. They went back to Auguste’s rooms through the same door behind a tapestry, and were pleased to find that nobody entered while they were gone, seemingly so. Their cups were still on the table, the tea now cool and the windows were closed tightly. Auguste sat down gravely, and took a deep breath before presenting a charming smile to Damen.

“So, how was I in bed?”

Damen groaned at the sound of Auguste’s rich laughter.

The following morning, Damen convoked the Akielons present in Vere in his chambers. Makedon, the soldiers and the ephoroi stood proud and tall in the morning glow, sheltering the anxious figures of Erasmus and his assistants, as well as Kyrina, who was soothed as best as she could be by her spouse. A typical reaction to the grave air Damen bore. Nikandros himself looked slightly disturbed, and by the way he almost squirmed, and how he reached unconsciously for the pommel of his dagger, hidden beneath his cloak as Damen knew. Their prince invited them all to sit on the ottomans with a vast gesture of his arm. Only Makedon chose to stand, close to Damianos, at arm’s reach. He clasped his shoulder instinctively, finding comfort in the weight of the general beneath his calluses.

“There will be unrest in Vere,” he said simply. He heard someone gasp, probably Kyrina, she who never knew a single battle.

“What do you intend to do, brother?” Nikandros spoke, after a deafening pause. Damen did not even have to think about his answer.

“I will stay and fight. Arles needs her allies.”

“Do _not_ put yourself in danger for your boy, son,” Makedon said gravely. He was his father’s friend, and considered Damen a son as much as Theomedes. “Akielos will not bear to see you lost to us.”

“I am doing it because it is my duty as Crown Prince.” It was only half a lie. “I have the gods by my side. I will be victorious of the bad blood writhing in Vere.”

“Prophecies are what they are boy, _words_. How can you know the outcome of a fight before having fighting it.”

Jokaste frowned at that. It was Heston who spoke. “Watch what you say, Makedon.” His tone was light, but the warning was clear: one just did not question the gods. Makedon only nodded once as an apology. Prideful as he was, he would never present apologies to men. To the gods, perhaps, but in the privacy of his domestic _bomos_ , then.

“I will stay by your side,” Jokaste said smoothly, diverting the attention on her. “It is what you summoned here for, is it not? To ask if we will stand by your side?”

“Vere will… perhaps now some riots in the following weeks or days, more violent than ever. In the capital itself. I do not wish to put you in an unconsidered danger.”

“We will not desert our King,” Erasmus said softly. Next to him, Kallias, Kyrina and Isander nodded, resolute in their stance. “We have but limited knowledge of war strategies, but we can be healers, if you will have us.”

Damen nodded, a thin smile on his lips to respond to Erasmus’ soft one. Nikandros went to his knees, most of the soldiers following suit. The ephoroi did not bow to royalty, but they rose from their sitting position and present their palm horizontally in sign of an oath. “Our swords are yours. We will protect you and your allies as if they were our own brothers.”

“I thank you, Nikandros. Rise, you deserve better than to be reduced to your knees, you know that much.”

Makedon groaned. “Well, an Akielon just does not back down from a fight. Better to die a warrior than live a coward. I will join your fight, but know that I fight for Akielos, and not Vere.”

Damianos laughed. It was the best answer he could ever get from Makedon. “Akielos thank you for your potential sacrifice. And I personally am grateful for this. You can all be proud of yourselves, for behind such proud and vigorous warriors. Danger lurks and can strike at any time. We have the explicit permission to carry weapons as long as we hide it, and to consulte with the Veretian generals and diplomats on this matter. Do not seek the King himself, for he will pretend not to know any scheme, and do not divulge any information I will tell.”

Damen proceeded to explain the plot as best as he could, with what he understood from his past business with Laurent and what Torveld’s letter noised, from the slave trade to finance the riots planned to happen regularly in Vere and particularly Belloy to overthrow and execute the royal family, as well as Patras’ involvement through their mercenaries and Laurent’s hostage situation. His audience listened to him patiently, and frowned at times, especially at the despicable enrollment of mercenaries to kill royalty for the benefit of one man above the nation. He hoped that he had convinced that his cause was just, and that they will follow him for the justice of it, and not out of blind loyalty to their prince. If any were to die, he would prefer to know they died for ideals, than by his own fault. The men barely asked questions, apparently outraged enough that words lacked. Most of them took their leave to prepare, not without any friendly affection toward Damen, and by extension Laurent and his family. Only Nikandros and Makedon decided to stay. Makedon looked wary.

“What I am about to tell you boys, have to stay in this room for now.”

“Always. Speak your mind, general.”

“As much as it pains me to say so, I fear the vipers are not only in Vere and Patras.” Damen’s heart missed a beat. Makedon continued, relentless. “Northern Akielon lords, though I do not know the extend of it, probably have a part in all of this, be warned. They crave war with Vere, viciously so, rumors say. You know their fortune is built on pillages and war, as arid as their lands are. They will use the excuse of the assassination as a _casus belli_ for a war with that Aimeric lad. There is no doubt there that they finance their little coup as much as Patras does, and for roughly the same reasons. If you defeat Aimeric, and if you want your Veretians to continue breathing, you will have to punish them, otherwise _they_ will be the ones to send men to slaughter the King.”

Nikandros looked thoughtful, but not surprised. Damen knew this expression, he had wanted to deal with that himself, as the kyros of Delpha, and major power of Northern Akielos. “It will not forget it. Thank you, Makedon.”

The gruff man nodded. “You know I only have your best interests at heart my boy. I shall take my leave now, then. Good day, your Highness. I will be by the training grounds if you seek me.”

The general left the room with a heavy step. Nikandros watched the door close behind his tall silhouette, before diverting his attention to Damen. His eyes were soft with compassion, but his features were closed and firm, almost reprobatory. It would not be the first time he disagreed with Damen, nor the last he would voice it. Damen sighed and sat on an ottoman, already exhausted even though he had woken just two hours before. His shoulders sagged, and Nikandros came to sit next to him, placing a comforting or stabilizing hand on his shoulder.

“I stand by what I said, I will stand with you and Laurent, but consider your position. Go back to Akielos, say you have found a spouse to marry, and let a small contingent of men deal with it and the protection of the King. _I_ will watch over them to prevent defection or treason, and you would be safe.”

“I am not a damsel in distress, Nikandros,” his voice came angrier than he intended too. “I can stand my ground. I will not cowardly go back to Akielos, while I let my men fight my battles for me. That is not how Akielons do it.”

“Is this about Laurent? I know you worry, but we can watch over him too. Damen, do _not_ act inconsiderably.”

“I do not worry about Laurent, I have seen him fight.” His technique was impeccable, his physique well-built beneath his silks. He had defeated Damen once, which was more than most of the continent could brag about. “I will not die in Vere, but I will see that justice is served, personally. I will not stand down in the face of chaos.”

“Will you execute the lords of Akielos, then? Have you made your choice?”

“The people will understand my decision.”

“Which people? Northerners, who are soldiers and thrive off war, or the Southerners and their frivolous habits?”

“All of them. Akielos upholds justice above all, and they went against their King. Treason shall not be tolerated, even less if it is against the family and country of their future King-consort.”

Nikandros smirked, his face softening. “‘King consort?’ So this is about Laurent, after all. Topple Aimeric to get his hand.”

Damianos could not help but flush slightly. Nikandros was probably right, a part of it was for Laurent’s hand, as much as he would deny it to anyone else, even to himself. Seeing admission in his blush, Nikandros pursued. “Did he get you into his bed just for your army, then?”

Damen frowned. He recognized it as a jab to what he thought was cowardice. Nikandros never shared his fascination with spies, thinking them liars and dishonest to the core. “I will not listen to you speak ill of him. I know you are not happy he concealed who he was the first time we met, and that getting him means fighting, but I know he is true in his feelings, and I am too. No matter what you say, I will get him safe and sound, as the Pythia spoke.”

“Fine. Have it this way. But if you are to die, be sure that I neither forgive you, nor him.”

Damen clasped his shoulder. He could feel the tension there, the way Nikandros had bottled up his opinion until then, when he thought the black blood gone, or the simple menace of a wedding to a Veretian lord, and could tolerate Laurent’s deceptive nature as solely Damen’s bedroom problem. Now that it involved a fight, a direct confrontation to get Laurent’s hand and heart, his friend did not tolerate it as much, and especially not if he thought Laurent had asked him, and not the other way around.

“I do not doubt it, brother. But I won’t. And soon, I will wed Laurent, and you will have to accommodate him too when I visit you. You will love him, I believe.”

“If he is anything like his brother, I do not want him.”

Damen laughed, and raised a single inquisitive eyebrow. “You adore Nicaise.”

Nikandros flushed and waved a hand dismissively. “I need to leave, I think. Have a good day, brother. I hope to see you for dinner in my rooms tonight, I heard Laurent was to spend his evening with Aimeric.”

The following days went by smoothly. Laurent organized his troops and the magistrates to counter the riots that threatened to break out in the provinces around Belloy, with the help of his birds, in the greatest secrets of the underground of Arles. Damen tried to keep up with what brides of knowledge Laurent slipped to him underneath the golden moon, seeking Auguste more and more, with soldiers to accompany them. If Aimeric ever saw a difference in habits, he did not show it, but the menace that he knew was still present, a sore and dull fact that loomed above their heads, ready to strike. That is why he should have known the young man would finally snap, tired of petty games and Laurent’s discreet machinations ruining his plan. 

Three mornings after the talk with his retinue, Damianos woke up with the impression that something was wrong. He had summoned Erasmus for a check, thinking that he must be ill, but when he told him how healthy he was, he directed his attentions to the gods. He summoned Kyrina, who had been a priestess in her youth, and asked her for an auspice, anything to know what troubled him so. _Is Laurent in danger_ , he asked her.

The kitchen had lent them a chicken for them to sacrifice to their gods, and Kyrina conducted the act in a secluded space of the garden alone open to the royals. She purified him with water she had fetched in a nearby fountain, for lack of better means, and had killed the animal in a swift gesture, with a prayer and Damen’s question. She let the corpse run around for a minute, before it dropped fatally and she teared it limb from limb, to read whatever message the gods wished to transmit him.

“Positive, Exalted.”

“Can you know what is to happen?”

Kyrina shook her head. “I am no oracle, Exalted. But I think you know. I would advice you to ready your men for whatever your ennemies have prepared for you.”

Damianos could only nod, silently. His feet led him naturally to Auguste first, bent over papers in his chambers as servants had informed him he would be. He did not bother to knock, startling the man there. He frowned when he saw him, and rose slowly, warily. He advanced as he would toward a startled animal, and Damianos imagined it was what he must have looked like, somehow, beneath the solemn attitude he tried to bear as not to raise any concerns or questions.

“Damianos?”

“Aimeric will strike today.”

“Pardon me?”

“The gods have said so. I … I feel it in my guts. You are in danger, you and your family.”

Auguste nodded. If he was scared, he, at least, did not show it directly but for the way he paled slightly and wavered for a single second. He had probably readied himself for this outcome, after reading the letter. “He did not lose any time now, did he? Barely a week. Enough to plan an attack. He knew we have been notified as soon as we received Torveld’s letter, somehow, I think.”

“You need to leave.”

“I won’t. I will send my wife and child in the country side since Aimeric has deserted it, but I won’t leave Arles. What King would I be if I let myself tremble in front of bastards and traitors. They can come, I will see them fail and fall by my sword.”

Damen’s heart beat loudly in his chest. “I will stand by your side, always, my brother in Vere.” A pause. He was unsure of what to say next, if Auguste would welcome comfort now, with anger pouring out of his words. Finally, he said: “I will inform Laurent.”

“Do so,” he said, softer. “I will see that my family is safe, and any Akielon who wishes to accompany them, though I cannot believe that any of you will back down from a fight. My own wife will probably question my decision, before placing our son at the center of her interests and accept to ride to Chastillon for a few days, and perhaps Patras if circumstances call for it.”

His face was soft as he spoke about his wife and younger son. _A loving, kind man_ , Laurent had once used to describe his father, _family-oriented and diligent in his affections_. Damen could only smile as well, before nodding once and taking his leave, wordlessly. The threat that it shall be the last time Auguste ever spoke to his family hung between them like a phantom that none of them wanted to acknowledge, and the more Damen stayed in inaction, the more he would think about it.

In the hallways, he passed by Makedon, and only told him to ready himself for tonight. The old man had nodded gravely and had whispered that he shall contact the soldiers present, and inform the rest of his suite, apparently sensing that they had not been Damen’s priority during his fast walk through the palace. He did not halt after that, neither for a woman’s “accidental” slip of the silk draped around her cleavage, nor when he accidentally ran into a servant and spilled wine all over himself. Discretion was not a fancy they would do with now, apparently. Let the coward know they were ready to face him in Arles.

He searched the palace for a good hours, travelling the niched hallways and the rich gardens where roses bloomed, tranquilly spreading their delicate perfume through the open windows. He even looked through unknown rooms, the pets’ apartments at the scandal or appreciation of the delicate inhabitants, the kitchens, stables and training areas, where all he could find were men armed to the teeth, waiting impatiently for _something_. To resist or to strike. The knowledge that the troops loyal to the King were ready eased him slightly. If the soldiers knew, then Laurent probably knew. And so did the Council and the nobles, who either fled with Hildegard and Nicaise, or stayed by Auguste’s side depending of their loyalties, their power and importance, or simply at the prospect of spoils to enrich them. Arles seemed ready for war, deserted and eery after the hooves of the horses transporting the refugees escorted by a small contingent died down.

It was Laurent who found him, as he was approaching his quarters to report back to Nikandros. He looked slightly disheveled, strands of hair twirling around his serene face where it had escape his signature flat braid. His presence already made Damianos feel better, airy and relaxed despite the context. He drowned in the sight of him, and for a moment, neither spoke, appreciating the other.

“Damianos.”

“I informed Auguste. He orchestrated the flight and readied your troops.”

“I know. I have come to thank you, and to ask you not to be reckless.”

Damen smiled despite himself. “Did Nikandros sent you?”

“No,” he said, serious. “It is out of my own violation. I simply… do not wish to see you perish at the hands of Veretian cowardice and deceit. It would not suit you.”

“I will not die.” _Do not die either_ , he thought, but left it unspoken. The mere thought was threatening to make him ill. Laurent would probably not like to be ordered around, even as such. “You care about me,” he said instead. His lover blushed.

“Of course I do. It would displease me to see my lover fall to a catamite and a traitor.” His face softened. “I very much wish to see Isthma for myself, once Auguste has accepted ur courtship.”

“Courting, is that what we are doing?” The realization sent shivers down his spine, and made his heart beat loudly in his chest. He longed to approach Laurent, but he found that he could not move, struck by the words, spoken so softly in the open.

“Yes, at least this is what I consider as a courtship.”

Damianos thought of their secret meetings, of the many nights spent in sweat and spend, or trading small whispers and chaste kisses. “How very Veretian,” he smiled fondly.

“Indeed it is,” Laurent responded in kind, and broke the distance between them.

Beneath his hands, Laurent was as warm as he remembered. His silks were soft, and the hair swinging to his hips felt like a caress. Finally, Laurent kissed him, reaching for his mouth on his tiptoes, forcing Damen to slightly bend forward. It felt exhilarating, and Damen found that he could not stop. He kissed time twice, thrice, tasting honey from his lips, only drawing back to breath his scent and hear his soft hums, until a cough forced them apart. Jokaste stood there, in her Akielon armor made of a breast plate and a skirt, a xiphos securely attached to her hip. She smirked, charmingly, and giggled as she saw Laurent squirm. It was the first time they officially met, Damen realized, and the thought made him heady. She dismissed his embarrassment with a wave, and came to rest a delicate hand on his shoulder.

“Already adopting Akielos practice, I see. Kissing your warrior goodbye, and praising Eros in war.”

“I shall be present to fight, so I cannot call it a goodbye.”

“An erotic present for Ares and Athena, then? Do Veretians get bolder for Mars?”

He smiled, malicious. “We do not fuck, if this is what you ask. We bring him blood and the head of any man that dared threaten the order his father instated in our Kingdom.”

“How very Veretian,” she quipped. “I cannot wait to see you fight. If you are as passionate in the battlefield as you are renowned to be in the sheets, it will be an honor to fight along Veretians.”

“The honor is all mine, lady Jokaste.”

She smiled at him one last time, before turning toward Damen. “Your orders, exalted.”

He looked at Laurent, whose arms were crossed on his chest and eyes curious. He would not order him to anything, then, Damen understood. His trust was vinous, and he realized just how enamored he was with him, almost frighteningly. Aphrodite was terrible.

“I doubt Aimeric will stay in one place and wait for us to strike by surprise either. Bring the fight to the royal wing, we can concentrate our attacks in a large space more apt to welcome our charge. Divide our men in the hallways, but send Erasmus and any other who do not wish to fight at the front line in the infirmary of in the back of whatever lines will form during this guerrilla, to tend to the wounded before anything. That is all.”

“May Lentos accompany your sword, Exalted.”

“May Lentos accompany your sword, Jokaste.”

At that, she bowed, and with a last wink towards Laurent, she left them to left to fetch the Akielons. Lauren stayed silent, but he was smiling. Damen felt like kissing him again, when he spoke: “I shall inform my own soldiers of your strategy. I pray it will work. Thank you for standing by my side.”

“Always, Laurent.”

His smile was found and bright, and it made Damen’s heart clench. He caressed his cheek with a cold hand that made him shiver, and turned to depart the Akielon wing. He was almost gone behind a pillar, when he turned around, his face as pink as a cherry blossom. “I love you.”

It was the second time he ever said it, but it felt even more honest and raw than the first time he did. As if he had chosen his last words. “I love you too,” Damen responded, and watched the eclipse of a smile before Laurent disappeared behind a wall.

Damen turned around, with the phantom of Laurent’s lips against his to polish and adorn his armor. He discarded the rich Veretian clothes he had used to wear, and took the single red martial chiton he had brought, with long sleeves and ropes to secure his golden breastplate and the traditional skirt they wore. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he felt pride swell in him. He had always been a warrior, in the Akielon tradition that bred soldiers and lovers, and gracing his armor once again felt like an honor, and even more so if he were to be Menelaus, slaying Patrans to rescue beautiful Helen from her jailers and have his love back to him again. A glint of light behind him caught his eye, and he turned to see the pendant he had discarded, the one offered to him by the priestess of Corinth. Jewels did not have their place on the battlefield, normally, but a voice in his head made his hand move toward, as if by reflex. He put on the pendant, and watched as it glimmered soft red hues in the light of the setting sun, the tocsin of battle. Aphrodite was with him, and he could not forfeit.

Ranks were already formed in the East wing that sheltered the royal apartments. Veretians and Akielons stood side by side, exchanging nervous glances or a little joke to lighten the mood, as did Pallas and his Veretian neighbor. Auguste was there, golden and proud in his armor, sword seized tightly in his hand, eyes straight forward, looking for shadows of the men that dared threaten his rule and family. Next to him, Laurent stood, scanning the hallway more subtly, surrounded by what Damen guessed were his spies, in which he recognized Ancel’s bright red hair. The men were ready, steady on their feet and resolute in the protection of their Kingdom and King. Damen went to Auguste’s side, naturally, and took his own position. No one dared to speak once he settled, and each man’s breath was caught in their throat, as they heard the clinging sound of an army approaching. Neither side had ever fought in narrow hallways, except perhaps for Laurent and his troops, and the battle was going to be a mess, each knew it. Only a few men could fight at a time, with spread lines of men and only short weapons in their possessions.

Aimeric appeared first, his curls not even covered by a casket, looking fierce and confident in his private army. Damen’s blood boiled. Next to him, he could feel the soldiers tense, probably as they recognized what they once thought were friends and acquaintances but who abandoned the Crown for a usurper. It only made them even more eager to fight, and their muscles tensed with anger. Auguste did too, as Aimeric walked nonchalantly toward them, until only a few meters separated them. Each army faced the other, armed and prepared to pounce.

“I am magnanimous, cousin. Surrender now, and I might let you live. Stop playing your father’s game, when the coward is not even here and has sent you to the slaughter instead.”

Aimeric faltered, but his face distorted in anger just as swiftly. “I will not bow to a man who prostitues himself and his family to affirm his power, and who commits heinous crimes towards his own people. You are a shame to our Kingdom, and it is but a divine retribution to see you and your family destroyed.”

Auguste’s face stayed neutral, but Damen could see how his jaw tensed at the insult and the reputation he apparently cultivated in the South. “Keep your lies off my family, _cousin_. Since diplomacy does not work for you, let us fight, then. I will pray my sword will be the one to pierce your heart.”

As soon as Auguste took a step forward, the Veretians moved as one and charged the other line, not even letting the words settle in their mind. Aimeric was quick to back off to the last lines and to let his mercenaries take the blow of his retreat. The battle was hazardous to Damen. It was quick, he stroke precisely to draw blood, a sea of it streaming through the mosaic tiles of the hallways. He could not stop striking, found a sort of delight in feeling his sword tear flesh and halt the enemies’ progression, knowing he had protected the men next to him and Vere herself. He could feel his gods beneath his wings, pushing him toward the enemy and driving them back. He could feel Auguste next to him, fighting with all he had, assaulting Aimeric’ defense of flesh and blood, until he reached him and made him face his justice. For what felt like hours, they dealt blow after blow, until their breath were coming in saccades and the sour odor of their sweat permeated their nostrils. In the scramble, he could barely distinguish Laurent anymore, but he could feel him somewhere, and that alone gave him the power to continue.

Finally, the fight died down progressively, mercenaries retreating or falling to a sword. Both sides lost men, and Damen could see Stavos’ lifeless body to his left. The reality struck him, and the shock made that no tears could fall yet, not before it was all over and gave himself a chance to grieve a man he had went to war with before, and with whom he had shared a barrack during his _agoge_. Elon, who had been his lover, was not so reserved, and tears rolled down his cheeks in earnest, quietly, as he cradled his body to his chest. Damen could not look at them.

“Auguste,” he heard Laurent scream, in high pitched, distressed voice. His whole body shook and he turned toward Auguste in time to see Aimeric fire an arrow toward his bare head. He sprung, but he feared he was too late to even try to take the blow for himself. He closed his eyes, not willing no witness what he could only imagine, and prayed her ancestors for help.

But no sound came, neither the sound of pierced flesh, nor the sound of a body dropping on tiles, nor a scream. The hallway was dramatically silent. When he opened his eyes, he could only see a cloud of fog and the arrow suspended in the air, close to Auguste’s face. No one dared to move through the thick fog, that almost felt material around them. In the darkness brought by it, Damen’s pendant was the only source of light, glowing a bright, white light and engulfing the soldiers in a comforting hue of light. And then came a shaky exhale, and everyone moved toward Aimeric, who stood paralyzed, bow dropped to the floor and eyes colorless. They brought him without a fuss, and every mercenary still standing to face them was arrested as well.

Damen felt all the eyes of the remaining men on him. He could not breathe, nor say anything, not even comprehending what had happen, but knowing deep down that he _did_ it. Or most likely, his pendant did. The gods, _Aphrodite_ , did it, because he had prayed for Auguste to live, for Vere to withstand, for Laurent never to face the hurt of losing his father that way. The young man was the first to approach Damen, slowly and carefully, not because he was afraid of him, but out of sheer reverence for the power attached to his neck. He took one of his bloodied hand in his, still milky white, as if he had not spent an entire hour driving back trained soldiers, and plunged his eyes in his.

“Thank you, Prince Damianos. You saved Vere.”

Cheers erupted left and right, and the wings of soldiers on the other hallways came to the epicenter of the merriment to share the victory with them, all converging around Damen and Auguste, standing as two luminous figure, victorious and regal. The doctors flooded the battleground and tended to wounds as best as they could, or eased some men’s death as they clutched to a friend, a brother, a lover’s hand. Veterans left the hallways for the gardens, for the city, to announce proudly to anyone who could hear that Auguste was victorious, and that Vere will see her traitors brought to justice, that the Southern’s lords days were numbered. Auguste let them, they could dwell in their victory for a night, before he had to send troops to capture Southern lords, and letters to foreign powers that any traitors who had escaped in their countries being brought back to Arles will see them rewarded. Wine flowed that night, as well as songs and dances. Tears and tombs could wait another day for most of the survivors, who were just glad to live to see another sun rising. Laurent was there as an unwavering presence for the whole night, staying by his side in slumber as well as in consciousness.

Damianos stayed for another week after that. He witnessed the execution of the traitors who had been brought back mercilessly to face their King’s wrath. Auguste swung the sword himself when Aimeric’s turn came. Damen still felt for the youth, who looked wreaked and whose cheeks were reddened by tears. He looked nothing like the doll he had been when he strolled the gardens with Laurent, when his head rolled on the dais. He himself had sent word to his father to discover which lords were involved in the plot, with the warning that Damen would not hesitate to retaliate himself, for the man he had chosen as his spouse was the target of this plot. His father had acted upon it with all the righteousness Damen knew about it, and had exiled the biggest contributors to distant lands with the interdiction to ever come back and a garrison to watch over them, giving their lands to their neighbors to satiate their hunger for luxury, but fining them to prevent them from ever going against him, ever.

As Auguste had said, he allowed him to court Laurent, and without the looming presence of Aimeric, he was free to be more public about his affections, to send gifts to Laurent without ever being questioned, and to seeking him more often, whenever Laurent had the time, as the task of securing the Kingdom still befell him. When Damen asked him if he wished to accompany him back to Akielos, his answers were always evasive, or he would divert the conversation by kissing him, touching him. He feared Laurent would refuse, and that he tried to let the subject drop delicately, instead of outrightly refusing. He had shared his musings with Jokaste, who had simply looked at him with all the warmth a mother could have given to him, and caressed his cheek.

“Aphrodite will not simply forget your reward, Exalted. Have patience and trust in her.”

She spoke them in a bizarre voice, rich and floating, as if her voice was not totally here. Damen had stood in stupor and shivers at her convinced tone, and let her kiss her forehead in a foreign gesture, her words echoing in his mind.

On the last day, he came to bid Laurent farewell before anyone else, knowing he will not be in the royal suite that will see him goodbye. His chest felt too tight for his heart and hurt as he walked to his door, and raised his hand to knock on the wood. His mind kept assaulting him with his scent, the way his skin felt beneath his finger, feverish with pleasure and lust, or the way he went pliant whenever Damen took the lead in their kisses. More than all of these moments, he would miss Laurent’s quips, his quick mind and the tenderness he could exhibit whenever sleep or love made him soft. He had been prepared to knock, when he heard a feminine voice through the door. Curiosity overtook him, and he glued his ear to the door.

“Why do you fear, your Highness?” the feminine voice, _Jokaste_ , said.

“It is not fear that keeps me there, but duty.”

“To whom? Your father?” Without even seeing him, he knew Laurent would have been taken aback, if only slightly. “Damianos did not tell me anything, I simply know it, do not hold prejudice against him. How better to serve his Majesty than by securing Akielos, and acting as a diplomat to the Exalted’s court?”

“I… I have to protect my father against more direct threats.”

“Let your spies deal with it. You know them, you know they are loyal and will die for Auguste as much as you would. Do not jeopardize your life for your father, who will only hurt to see you grieve the blossom of romance you cultivated so preciously.”

“I do not doubt them, but I need to be there.”

“No.” Jokaste’s voice was powerful and resolute, as if she could order Laurent around. “You do not. I will tell you what I think. I think the love you have for your father has blinded you to life, and has made you only the shell of the young man you are, and I know his Majesty despair of that. He will ask you to stop serving him from the shadows, eventually, and then you will be alone and without anything to prevent you from grieving for Damianos.”

Laurent let out a shaky exhale. “So you would see me journey to Akielos and stay there forever?”

“Not forever, you silly boy,” Jokaste said softly, as a mother would had her child ask a childish question. “You will see your family again. But it is time for you to break free, and to live the life that was traced for you. That of a young and sensible man of your tales, falling for another and finding his solace there. You will bloom in Akielos, as a King consort and an ambassador from Vere. You will know the joys of being a lover, while continuing to thrive in politics and intrigues. I know you crave for it, so surrender.”

A pause, during which neither spoke, and Damen almost fear of what Laurent would say. Eventually, Laurent’s voice said: “So be it. I will trust your advice, _Jokaste_. Thank you, for this conversation.”

“So go tell your beau, child,” Jokaste said smoothly. “Ask him to enter finally.”

Damen flushed, but did as Jokaste told, and entered the rooms. Laurent and Jokaste were standing in the middle of the room, looking at him softly. “Will you really come with me?” he asked, willful.

“I will, if you can postpone your departure to tomorrow morning. I need… I need to tell my father and organise my last heritage to Vere’s internal affairs, I believe.”

Laurent looked sweet as he said that, and Damen could not help but walk to him and take him in his arms. The weight of him in his embrace was the most joyful moment of Damen’s life. He draped a head around his neck, his height an offering, which Laurent took. They kissed chastely, until they heard the door close behind Jokaste, and let their hands roam free on each other’s body for a few minutes more, before Laurent had to left to prepare for his departure, and Damen to postpone his. Everyone overjoyed at the prospect.

They left the following morning, Veretians throwing him white flowers from their windows as he descended the hill of Arles. Shouts and cheers accompanied him until the bottom, where Auguste came to face him and hug him tightly. He did not let the sadness he must feel at seeing his son leave Arles, still looking elegant and poised, a perfect regent, the incarnation of Jupiter himself.

“Take care of him”, he whispered and kissed his temple.

He turned to Laurent then, with adoration glimmering in his eyes as he took the young man before him, who had discarded his tight clothing for a simple and yet exquisite lilac costume, complimenting his pale complexion perfectly. He looked grown like this, standing tall before his father and not allowing himself to shed before his people. Auguste put his hands on his shoulders and brought him to his chest, tightly embracing him.

“Be well, brother. Send me letters regularly. I will see you in the winter,” he said, not releasing his grip on Laurent.

“Always, brother. You know I will. I hope to find you healthy and well in the winter as well. I trust that you will jealous my wedding regalia.”

The quip made the small group of nobles laugh amiably, as well as Hildegard, while Nicaise rolled his eyes, but barely hid his smile or the way his eyes watered slightly. When Auguste released him, his wife came to hug Laurent as well, passing a diaphanous hand in his hair and a kiss on his temple. She shared a murmur with him, that Damen could not hear, but left Laurent to flush and his mother-in-law to smirk devilishly. Finally, Nicaise came to embrace him, briefer than his parents as not to fall to his emotions.

“Watch your barbarian,” he said in a tight voice.

“And I’ll watch yours too, so that he tries not to corrupt you again,” Laurent said with a wink, tilting his head toward Nikandros, who simply groaned at Nicaise’s scheming smile.

“Thank you for your hospitality, your Majesty,” Damianos said, officially closing his stay in Vere. “My vows stay true, I shall watch over your brother with all the care and cherish him until death do us part.”

“I do not doubt it. Your presence has been a blessing and a delight to Vere, and she will not forget what you have done for her. I wish a safe travel for you, and that the sea brings you home safely.”

Both men bowed to each other, and their suite followed just after. They all mounted their horses or went into their carriage. Laurent was flanked by three Veretian soldiers, including the one who had joked with Pallas before, and who kept trying to look beneath the chiton he had adorned for the trip, which made the young man laugh and say to wait until they went abord the ship.

The gods were with them on their journey home, which took only a week with clement winds and pleasant rides atop their horses. They left Nikandros at Delpha, and let Jokaste and Kyrina descend at Corinth, stating that they would like to enjoy the privacy of their home sooner than intended, and that they did not wish to partake in the festivities back at Ios. The rest stayed, for they lived or served at the capital itself.

As soon as they could see the white cliffs of Ios and the palace throning above the water, Damen felt his heart beat with excitement, and his hand came to seek Laurent’s, who was standing next to him, in awe at the view of the white marble of the city illuminated by Helios and its shimmering reflection in the sea. The port of Ios was plunged in excitements, his people shouting for him and awaiting the revelation of the foreign beauty he brought with him. Children were sitting atop their parents’ shoulders, waving flowers and flags for the victorious warriors who saved a Kingdom and would bring them a spouse to lead the Kingdom with Damen when time comes. Even the parents of the fallen soldiers stood proud and joyful, knowing their sons died bravely at war and secured the future of Akielos. In the middle of the crowd stood his father and his brother, imposing figures whose calm authority reigned supreme. Still, his father smiled as he saw Damen on the deck, flanked by Laurent, whose hair had curled delicately because of the sea salt, and who looked every part the foreign beauty, in exotic clothing and with polite manners and a slight accent that made Akielos sound like the ancient poems sung in the agorai.

Damianos was the first to descend, with Laurent’s hand still in his. They bowed before their father, who smiled at them kindly and ordered for them to rise. He observed Laurent, and nodded once in approval.

“The prophecy did not lie, my son. I welcome you back home, after your triumph in Vere and awaiting the courtship Akielos will be blessed with.”

Laurent smiled politely at his father’s words, but did not say anything else, unsure yet of where he stood in Akielos. “It is good to be back, father,” Damianos spoke then. “I too, look forward to courting this man, promised to me by Aphrodite and the love that binds us, as tradition wills for six months, before a wedding in the winter.”

“Then come, soon. Ios has missed you, and I am sure you require rest after your travels.”

The crowd marched as one toward the palace, singing and dancing in the streets, all fighting for Laurent’s attention, even children whom he saw were already enamored with his lover. He took the sudden attention brought to him pretty well, after a life time in secrecy and solitude, and seemed to prosper under it, clearly touched by such love toward him. He deserved it, Damen thought, and so much more.

Ios was as he remembered it, with flowers blooming near the temples, and a multitude of scent and colors permeating the agora. The people wore their fanciest chiton and tunics, and offered Damen amphoras of wine, as well as little thoughtful gifts, as one would a god, so he would sacrifice them to Aphrodite to mark his return, as well as his companions’. The white marble of the palace stood solemnly atop a small hill, near the edges of the cliffs. The sound of the waves crashing against the stone grew louder and louder as they approached his home, columns of white marble decorating every corner, as well as white, tall statues, and olive trees, whom Athena had gifted them with the wisdom of ruling an Empire. The Veretians seemed reverential before the simple beauty of Ios, and one could see the awe in their eyes and the way the could not look elsewhere than at the gigantic statue of Aphrodite, naked and voluptuous, armed with a single spear and crowned with laurels, which stood proudly before the palace.

Servants were readied to take their belongings and bring them to their apartments, barracks or homes. Soldiers bid Damen farewell, as well as the physicians, who thanked Damen for the welcomed experience, during which they had learnt a lot, before wishing him a good evening, and leaving for the temple of Apollo where they worked on the outskirts of the city. Nobles greeted them on their arrival, but his father chased them promptly. _Let the youth rest_ , he had said in his booming, paternal voice. _We will see them rested at the symposium tonight_. Damen had welcomed the respite, and had thankfully brought Laurent to the chambers they would soon share. The windows were open, and one could smell the sea from there. Damianos’ rooms were more sober than Laurent’s in Arles, its beauty relying on the billowing curtains and the white columns framing the balcony, arches or doors. The walls were decorated in soft hues with mosaics or the painting of how Lentos came to vanquish tyranny and instaure justice in Ios, and then Akielos as a whole, bringing the Empire together beneath one man. His furnitures were sculpted in the finest wood, a small desk, as well as a table to dine on alone, a vanity and a chest at the end of his bed covered in the most magnificent purple silks of Tyre. Incense was burning low, soft fragrances of lavender and polished wood permeating the air.

Laurent relaxed as soon as they were alone, and smiled beautifully at him. “My fiancé,” he said candidly, and Damen’s heart leaped in his chest.

“My star and moon, my Helen, my promised.”

The young man before him chuckled, and let his hand rest on the bare pectoral his chiton exhibited. His hand was warm and rosy, soft and electrifying. The kiss happened naturally, and so did the hand reaching for Laurent’s back laces. Their tongues danced, ravenous and hungry, as their hands trailed the bare skin they each unveiled in their partner. Naked before the sun, they could feel the warmth radiating of the other, as well as their arousal colliding between their bodies. It was only them in the room, in the palace, in the universe itself, who lived only for them to dwell in it and rejoin like that, basking in each other.

“I want you,” Laurent whispered on his lips.

“You have me,” Damianos answered breathlessly.

It was easy to topple them on his bed. Damen only had to take a few steps forward for Laurent to go willingly. As soon as his back hit the soft silks, his hands trailed down to close around Damen’s shaft. The sensations of his fingers around him made Damen moan shamelessly. Akielons were not shy in their love, and selfishly, he wanted everyone to know that he was bedding Laurent, the most beautiful man of the continent, who had somehow almost started a war between Patras and Vere because both royals there desired them, and if not for diplomacy, would have been punished for their role in Aimeric’s revolt. Torveld had succeeded his brother, who had been judged incompetent, and who now was a simple advisor to his brother. Somehow, no hard feelings had been shared between the two, and Torgeir accepted his fate smoothly.

Laurent switched their positions, coming to straddle Damne, still stroking his cock. Rhythmically, he grinded in his laps, making them both gasp quietly in the heat of the afternoon. Damianos shuddered, feeling his orgasm building slowly, and Laurent dismounted then. He could not help but whine at the loss of his fingers on him and his weight in his laps.

“I want to make love to you,” Laurent said, soft and loving, “and I want you to come with my cock buried deep in you. Will you let me?”

Damen moaned. “ _Please_.”

He pointed to the chest near his bed, and Laurent understood that it was where he kept his oils. He did not trust himself with words, which would be slurred under the heavy presence of lust in his veins, he knew. He watched Laurent’s back arch as he rummaged it in search for oils, and took himself in his hand, slowly massaging his manhood, straight as a calyx, as he watched the way Laurent’s cheeks parted slightly, enough for him to see the delicate skin there, like a buttercup presented to him. Eventually, he straightened and grinned as he showed him the vial he found. He went back to hover Damen, pressing a kiss on his collarbone, before sitting on his heels and watching the way Damen’s hand went up and down.

“Are you ready,” he asked in the satiny voice he only took when they laid together.

“Yes, I _need_ it.”

Laurent chuckled. “I live to serve.”

A place a reverent kiss on his neck, before angling himself comfortably on the bed so that he could best position himself to prepare Damen. He took a deep breath, for he knew the first penetration was always painful, no matter how much care Laurent put into easing as much as he could. He pressed oil on his fingers, a generous amount, and tapped his shoulder with his clean hand, a silent order for Damen to rest his knees there, so Laurent could have a better access to his buttocks. A small kiss was deposed on the side of his right knee, just as a cold finger started massaging the part between the schism of his back. The sensation was odd, but not unwelcomed, and he breathed shakily at the pleasure it brought him. The first push past the ring was a little surprise, but he accommodated it better than the first time they did it this way. Laurent above him praised him, and whispered soft encouragements to him as he started moving. He could feel the digit teasing his entrance, but never going further than the first knuckle, until Laurent deemed Damen loose enough to go deeper, and insert a second, seeking his prostate in a crochet mention. His lover knew he found it when he keened sweetly.

“I love the sounds you make,” Laurent said privately, voice breathy with lust. “Just for me, beautiful, just like you are. I love to see you undone beneath me, to know I can bring you pleasure like that.”

Every words felt like being pierced by Cupid, and Damen let out a low groan. “Laurent, please, you know I won’t last if you start.”

“I’ll be quick, then,” he said devilishly, “so I can continue to make you come undone and _untouched_ from the pleasure of me in you and the slur of my words. Is that what you want?”

“Gods, _yes_ , give it to me, my love.”

Laurent bent toward him to press their lips together, and Damen drunk whatever he gave him like he was a dying man in a desert. His free hand came to take Damen’s, still resting on his cock, and intertwined their fingers on the sheets. Damen’s shaft twitched under the cool air and at the prospect of coming untouched, with only what Laurent would offer him. His lover’s fingers embrocated his most erogenous zone, deep inside him, and his hips raised uncontrollably as he sped up his motions. His name came in a breathy plea, and suddenly he was empty. Laurent moaned as he spilled oil on his hardened prick, and bestrewed it on his length. His hand came to guide him to Damen’s private part, while another came to rest on one of his thigh, soothingly caressing the skin there.

“Do it, Laurent,” Damen whispered, his voice heavy with desire and need.

The cold of Laurent penetrating him made him pant. He let him adjust to him, until Damen rolled his hips on me, encouraging him to take his pleasure, as much as he gave it to Damianos. Once he was fully sheathed, Damen could think of nothing else but the way his lips parted slightly as he tested the warmth of Damen’s cavity or how short his breathing was, shaking slightly as he moved back and forth, swifter and swifter, as they forgot to speak anything else but passion. Damen brought his head down with his hand and kissed him fiercely as Laurent hit his prostate again and again with the tip of his cock, making him see stars. They breathed each other’s air as Laurent continued to fuck him and caress his thighs. It was heady, the feeling of fullness he felt, and Laurent permeating his senses, his scent, his touches, his weight resting above him barely supported by the force of his arms. He could barely register the words Laurent spoke to him, in the throes of passion, but he knew by the way his voice vibrated around him that they were praises, and compliments perhaps even scenarios of what they would share in the future

“ _Laurent, Laurent, Laurent_ ,” he chanted as his pleasure overtook him.

“Come for me, sweetheart.”

As he commanded, he did, spilling messily between them. Vaguely, in the transe of his orgasm, he could feel Laurent still in him and warmth spread through his back. They stayed joined for a few instants more, watching each other adoringly, before Laurent drew back and took Damen’s chiton discarded on the floor to clean them both. He was carefully and attentive, almost shy in the way he touched Damen afterwards and cleaned his seat as well as he could.

“I liked this chiton,” he joked.

“Sorry, I thought it was a rag,” Laurent retorted good-natured.

He threw the dirty chiton on the floor and climbed back into the bed, nestling at Damen’s side, his hands caressing his chest lovingly, tracing forms and words there, as the other man caressed his hair.

“I love you,” Damen said.

“Me as well,” Laurent said against his skin. “More than anything. I cannot wait to spend eternity with you, in your embrace and in your affection.”

“You are Aphrodite’s greatest gift to me,” Damen said, pressing a kiss on the top of his head.

They drifted to sleep tranquilly, with the honeyed thoughts of what their future could be, shared between them privately, as well as publicly, ruling over an Empire and over their children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * in latin, “warm seed”: I’ve tried to “translate” the supposed etymology of the word chocolate (hot) seed) in latin (which I headcanon as Vere’s language here), since Romans didn’t have any word for chocolate (ha, losers didn’t know it) + the hot of “hot” chocolate.
> 
> Next chapter is an annex with terms to better understand the story, or Ancient Greek society in general haha, though Akielos is not entirely based on Ancient Greece (and esp. Sparta), as Vere is only looooooooosely based on imperial Rome (like, very very loose).
> 
> The idea of Laurent being Auguste’s bastard is something I saw once on Tumblr ik, but can’t remember for the sake of all things holy from whom :( So I take no credit for this little thing, except that I liked the idea.
> 
> Thank you for reading my story, and for the potential feedbacks, theories, questions, yida yida about it (I love it ok, attention makes me prosper like a flower does) 🌹❤️

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking of doing maybe a chapter for annexes, to have a better understanding of the universe, but decided against it tbh... Just know that if Akielos is loosely based on Sparta and Macedonia, but they are not my only source of inspiration for it, and neither is France for Vere (precisely actually, India, Persia, Germany, England, and crumbs of imperial Rome are also lol). 
> 
> I will just explain the only expression I created, which is "calidus granum”, which means hot chocolate here ok. Actually, Latin (which I headcanon as Vere’s language, wink wink Akielon heritage) does not have a word for chocolate, for those losers did not know it (HA!) so I took the supposed etymology of the word chocolate (which is warm seed, actually lol) . Thus calidus granum = hot seed. Chocolate. Which is drunk so hot chocolate. The wonders of neologisms...
> 
> Also, the AU of Laurent being Auguste’s bastard comes from a text post I read on Tumblr and could not find for the sake of all things holy, so credit to whoever had that idea :( I thought it would make much more sense in this AU, than having Laurent as his brother. 
> 
> Thank you for reading my story, and I long to read your potential feedback, theories, comments, anything !! (I love them ok, I crave attention the way flowers do...) 🌹❤️
> 
> P.S: did you guess who Jokaste was ? hahaha I wasn’t very subtle.


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